Truth and Glory
by SoulGamesInc
Summary: "We, Valyrias Children." - The words first spoken by Moredo 'the Dragon' Rogare, later echoed by his descendants as they ventured out into the world seeking either truth or glory; more often both, but true glory consists in doing what deserves to be written and what's written is rarely the truth. This is the tale of House Rogare.
1. Chapter 1: Valyrias Children

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

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Notes: This story replaces my story 'The Black Dragons' simply due to the wall I hit, while I enjoyed writing as Aerion Blackfyre, the character was too marysue for my tastes. Dragons ruined it, the things are an auto-win button. This story will follow a similar arch but allow me to go into far greater depth than 'The Black Dragons' ever did; starting the next chapter with the Band of Nine and then jumping forward to around Robert's Rebellion where the main story begins.

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 **Chapter 1: V** **alyrias Children**

The Magnificent. That was the name held by Lysandro Rogare, head of the Rogare Bank, the only rival to the mighty Iron Bank of Braavos. Late in his rule Lysandro came to care for a young Prince thought long dead by the Iron Throne, but rather than announce this to the world he kept Viserys Targaryen as a ward and raised him among his own children. Viserys was eventually wed to the family's eldest daughter Larra Rogare, despite her being nine years his senior. It was a happy union.

During the early reign of Viserys's older brother, King Aegon III, it became known in Westeros that Viserys had survived. It was not long after that Alyn Velaryon came to 'ransom' the Prince away from Lys. Not one to ignore the opportunity for profit, Lysandro accepted the kingly sum, sending the Prince home with his wife and brother-in-laws.

King's Landing was the city of his ancestors. Lysandro would often tell him tales of the great city forged with fire and blood, a bastion of greatness, a city of dragon kings. Now that he had finally seen it with his own eyes for the first time since he was a mere babe Viserys knew the tales to be nothing but sweetness told to a child. It smelled like shit and, trying to avoid breathing through his noise, the young dragon made his way down the ramp off the ship and onto the pier. The smell did not improve as he walked to the docks and onward to the cobbled streets. "My brother knows I'm coming," Viserys paused, direction the question to the man beside him. "doesn't he?"

Alyn Velaryon looked at the young prince and offered a false smile. "I'm sure His Grace is merely running late."

"Late?" Lysaro Rogare, heir to Lys, spoke with a snarl. "He should be here to greet us."

The youngest Rogare, Moredo, smirked as he began casually holding his sisters hand to calm her nerves. "He's the king, brother."

"And I'm heir to-"

"Enough!" Velaryon spat. "His Grace will see us soon enough."

As the man spoke, sure enough a guard of some fifty men in gold cloaks came storming down the cobbled alley ahead of them. At the head of the group were three knights in shiny white armor with white cloaks to match. "The Kingsguard." Moredo spoke aloud, attempting to calm his sister by answering any questions she may have before she could even think to ask them. "They protect the king and-"

Larra smiled, her purple eyes of old Valyria sparkling. "I know what they are brother."

Moredo offered a smile in return, nodding at Viserys whom was grinning at the conversation taking place between the two siblings. "The great Sword of Lys silenced by his sister, once again." The Prince mocked with his usual charm. He and Moredo were practically brothers, having grown up toward at the Rogare family palace.

"Prince Viserys." The lead Kingsguard spoke, bowing his head respectfully to the well built young man dressed in a fine black doublet with silver trim, a single steel pauldron on his sword arm and a dark silk cloak that matched his doublet. One could hardly blame the kingsguard was mistaking the man as royalty. "If you'll follow me to-"

"My name is Moredo," The man replied with a smirk. "your Prince stands beside me."

The Kingsguard went wide-eyed at that, darting his vision between the men. Viserys was far leaner than Moredo, clean-shaven with long hair and a charming yet calculating look to him. "Apologies, my Prince." The Kingsguard regained his composure. "We were honestly not expecting... others... to be accompanying you."

Viserys waved off the apology. "No harm done, Ser?"

"Marston," The knight bowed. "Marston Waters."

"And your brothers?" Viserys asked, motioning to his fellow Kingsguard.

"This is Ser Joffrey Staunton," The knight bowed. "and Ser Mervyn Flowers."

"A pleasure." Viserys smiled. "Since you introduced your brothers," He paused, placing a friendly hand on Moredo's shoulder. "allow me to return the gesture. This is Moredo Rogare and the fellow scowling because I'm introducing him second, is his brother Lysaro Rogare, Heir to Lys and the Rogare Bank.""

"I do _not_ scowl." Lysaro scowled.

Viserys continued, smirking wider than before. "And last but certainly not least is-"

"Larra Targaryen," Larra offered her most charming smile. "formally Larra Rogare."

"My wife." Viserys explained, placing a protective arm around Larra.

"W- wife?" Ser Marston stuttered, looking to his fellow whitecloaks as if to say 'did you know about this?' only for the confusion to be shared. "We did not know that-"

Again, Viserys waved away an apology. "No fault of yours Ser, I wished it to be a surprise for my brother."

A grin threatened to brake on Marston's face. "His Grace will be overjoyed, no doubt. If you'll follow us my Prince?"

Viserys gave a nod, taking his wife by the hand as her brothers followed closely behind. Ser Marston did not fail to notice Moredo's hand laid resting vigilantly over the pommel of his sword, Truth, the grip wrapped in dark leather with an engraved silver guard and the pommel itself boasting a large flawless diamond. The fuller was a light grey with the blade itself being as pale as milkglass, ripples flowing down it. The ancestral blade of the Rogare family was a the envy of all families, save perhaps the Targaryens.

"Watch where your going!" A stranger pushed past another in the street, but the prince was far too busy taking in the sights to take notice.

"Fish!" One merchant was yelling, displaying his catch for the hungry peasants. His cry was joined by the other merchants each trying to out shout the other, each trying harder in turn. "Your breads stale as your mothers arse!" The fish merchant taunted crudely at another behind a stall displaying bread. The bread merchant processed to offer insults in kind as the Kingsguard's group moved on, not wanting to be apart of whatever came next. The smallfolk knew they had more pressing concerns than the squabbles of the lowborn, so they all but ignored the armored group. Was all of Westeros like this? Moredo dreaded the thought, finding that he already missed Lys.

Leaving the lower town the young merchant princes eyes drifted upward. "The Red Keep." He muttered aloud to the wind and anyone close enough to overhear him, the sudden outburst of the obvious earned him a puzzled look from a passerby. The red castle stood out like a beacon, only the Great Sept of Baelor it's rival, hanging over the dirty streets. No wonder the city seems to neglected, with it's lords sitting high and pretty behind stone walls. Moredo pushed onward, keeping close to his sister at all times.

A year passed in the red keep and Moredo found himself agreeing with his sister on many things, this was a city of ambitious vipers out to use anything and everything against their family. The birth of little Aegon, Moredo's nephew, brought his sister joy for a time... until it became clear that the boy was seen as nothing but a pawn in the 'game' the lords of Westeros played. Larra Rogare hated King's Landing, and Moredo hated it in turn. Viserys tried everything to make her feel welcome... but what happened next brought her hatred of Westeros to new highs. Nobody threatens House Rogare and gets away with it, or so they claimed, the family was proud if nothing else.

"Moredo Rogare!" The voice echoed down the hallway of the red keep, bringing an amused grin to Moredo's face as he turned to face the voice.

"Can I help you?" He said with the grin on his lips, hand resting on the diamond pommel of Truth.

"By order of the Hand of the King," The gold cloak began. "you are to submit and be escorted to the black cells."

Moredo laughed. "Is that so?"

"Come peacefully or we'll be forced to-"

The speaker slumped to the floor with a thud, a dagger between his eyes.

"You want my blood?" Moredo taunted, drawing Truth from it's scabbard in one fluid motion. "Come then, dogs!"

A quick glace at their fallen commander was all it took to goad the goldcloaks into attacking, into the jaws of Truth. Moredo swung the sword in an arch as his foe approached, cutting his castle-forged steel asunder and processing to open the wielders throat with a backwing. Stepping forward Moredo parried another blow, countering and driving Truth into another foes stomach with a single thrust. Moredo pushed the skewered man forward, letting his weight do the work as Truth slipped free and continued to rend.

"Pitiful!" Moredo growled, an overhead arch slicing through another goldcloaks skull like a hot knight through butter.

"Your surrounded!" A goldcloak shouted, the fear evident in his voice as he eyed the numerous bodies of his fallen brothers-at-arms.

Moredo took the momentary pause to catch his breath and wipe Truth clean of the thick layer of crimson, not that it helped, his attire was coated in dark blacks and reds as he stood among the dead and blood splattered walls. No blade had touched him, yet, but he knew he'd only be able to keep this up for so long. "Am I?" He smirked.

More goldcloaks arrived to fill the adjacent side of the corridor, now he was well and truly surrounded. He muttered some words silently to himself.

"Surrender!" The goldcloak commanded, the newest arrivals wide-eyed at the sight of the crimson coated knight.

Moredo raised his heads up as he finished his mutterings, "for the night is dark and full of terrors." With one swift motion of his hand running lightly along Truth's edge the blade gave birth to flames that continued to dance around the steel, seemingly fed by nothing but the mans blood. Moredo picked up a second sword from one of the fallen goldcloaks and swung the blade to test it's balance. He stood silently, blades resting at either side, daring his enemies to face him.

The goldcloaks advanced from both sides, halting a few feat from the crimson stained knight.

*Thud*

A crossbow bolt stuck Moredo's thigh, causing him to grunt in pain and lock eyes with the crossbowman.

"Arrrggg!" Moredo charged, ignoring his surroundings as he charged at the bastard. He crashed into the wall of goldcloaks like a wave against rocks, knocking over those closest, swinging both blades in an arch and cutting into whatever flesh happened to get between him and his target. He made short work of the crossbowman, severing the mans head from his shoulders with one swing of Truth. Reality kicked in afterwards, numb from the many cuts he'd gained, Moredo collapsed and the darkness consumed him.

"Welcome back to the land of the living." A familiar voice muttered, coated in a bitter sarcasm.

Moredo blinked as the world returned to focus, finding himself in a dark damp stone room. "Where are we?" He croaked, looking towards the voice and confirming the owner as his brother, a snarl on his lips, slumped up against the stone wall of their shared cell. "The fuckers attacked me..."

"Took them with you I hope?" Lysaro attempted a hollow smile, revealing a few missing teeth. No doubt his proud mouth got him less than civil treatment.

"Did you expect anything less?" Moredo replied, straightening himself up against the wall.

"No." Lysaro's grin turned more honest, before vanishing altogether. "They took Truth."

Moredo cursed at the realization, although what was he expecting? Prisoners rarely got to keep weapons.

"Larra-"

"-is fine." Lysaro assued his brother. "I overheard the guards. Viserys and the king refuse to give her up."

"Good." Moredo sighed in relief. At his sister was safe. "How long have-"

"Two days," Lysaro raised an eyebrow, uncertain. "or has it been three?"

The two brothers spent days locked up while the king and Prince Viserys were besieged in Maegor's Holdfast, before Ser Marston finally remembered his duty and found his way to their cell beneath the Red Keep. They heard him coming down the damp hallway and Moredo moved to shield his brother, whom remained slumped against the wall.

"Come to finish the job, Waters?" Moredo growled, standing side-faced ready to defend himself as best he could without any steel.

Marston unlocked the door to the cell and let it swing open. "I've come to do my duty."

"To who?" Moredo asked, curious. "Your king, or to yourself?"

Waters eyes darted to the floor for a moment.

"My sword." Moredo spoke, noting the shame in the mans eyes. He was not here to kill them, it seemed.

The fact was confirm the moment Waters placed Truth back in Moredo's hands, the blade had been cleaned and placed back in it's scabbard. _"God knows what those traitors had planned for you."_ Moredo though, most likely they'd have melted it down to be reforged. He put the thought aside and looked at Waters. "Where is my sister?"

Waters lead the two brothers to the Red Keep and fulfilled his king's command to arrest those who implicated Lord Rowan and the Rogares falsely. Marston was later killed trying to apprehend Ser Mervyn Flowers, who was apart of the lies. Months passed since the Rogare's were falsely accused and subsequently released. The regency of Aegon III Targaryen ended on the day of his sixteenth name day, when the king entered the small council chambers with his brother and the Rogares to dismiss all of the regents and the latest Hand. Thus ended the corrupt council of regents. Moredo rarely left his sisters side after the incident, seeing enemies in every corner of the foul city.

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"They butchered my brother," Moredo growled, knelt at the foot of the Iron Throne pleading with the king for aid. "ripped the flesh from his bones with fucking whips for imagined grievances. Liars and traitors to the last!" Dark wings dark words, the lords of Westeros often said, only now did Moredo understanding the meaning of it. His brother had returned to Lys to claim his birthright in light of their fathers untimely death, only for Lysaro to be taken captive and scourged at the Temple of Trade.

"I cannot start a war with the free cities." King Aegon spoke from atop the throne, high above those gathered in the hall. All four of them... he'd kept the room empty.

"You'll do nothing?!" Moredo spat, standing in that instant. "He was your-"

"I did _not_ say that." Aegon interrupted, shooting warning look before giving a subtle nod to his brother.

"Your uncle was Prince Consort to Princess Aliandra."

"You know he was, Viserys." Moredo snarled. "His sudden death so close to my fathers is no bloody coincidence either..."

"It seems you and Aliandra think alike." Aegon leant forward. "Show him, brother."

Viserys stepped forward, holding out a letter to his brother-in-law.

Moredo noted the broken orange wax. "You broke the seal?"

"One can never be too careful with the dornish."

"Poison." Moredo muttered, reading the letter from Princess Aliandra Martell. It sent her condolences for his loss and she claimed a shared desire for vengeance, stating that she knew poison better than most and knew beyond a doubt that her husband has been murdered. "Fucking cravens..."

"This came with the letter," Viserys handed over a small copper clasp. "she claims men wait for you at Wyl to escort you to Sunspear."

"You cant be serious." Larra added her voice, glaring daggers at her husband. "Your sending him into dorne, uncle may have been close to the Martells and his children are cousins by blood but what's stopping them from using my brother for ransom to those bastards at Lys? The last Heir of Rogare would fetch a handsome bounty, no?"

Aegon agreed. "One million golden dragons, that was their last offer along with promise of future trade."

"Ha!" Moredo said sarcastically, muttering more cruses under his breath.

Larra was more vocal. "They seek to buy my brother with our own coin?!"

"You too, my love." Visery smiled sadly.

"Naturally," Aegon paused. "we told them to shove the gold someplace dark."

"I'll shove more than gold-" More muttered to himself as his sister continued talking.

"They'd have sent ravens to the minor houses."

"And that," Aegon smirked." is why he'll have an honor guard with him on the road to Wyl."

"And a Kingsguard." Viserys added. "Ser Joffrey Staunton will take a company of swords."

Moredo gave a nod as thanks. "They wont be welcome in Dorne."

Aegon knew that. "No, they wont."

"I'm coming with you." Larra stated Matter-of-factly.

"The hells you-"

Larra silenced the prince with a kiss.

"Larra." Viserys practically begged.

"He's right Larra," Moredo said, knowing it would be hopeless to convince her otherwise. "you should stay here. Aemon is barely a year old, he-"

"Aemon is stronger than his siblings," Larra explained with pride. "he'll be more than fine in my absence."

Moredo sighed. "There is no talking you out of this, I know."

Larra simply smiled at her brother, when Larra Rogare wanted her way she _always_ got her way.

"Once you pass into Dorne I'm afraid your fate is in the hands of the Martells." Viserys spoke with no small hint of concern, he'd practically begged his brother to assist them both themselves, but Aegon made it clear that attacking Lys would be seen as an act of aggression by the rest of the free cities. House Targaryen could ill afford another war.

* * *

The moors and plains of the Dornish Marshes were behind them, ahead laid the Boneway, a major pass that ran through the Red Mountains connecting Dorne and the Stormlands. Officially the pass was named the 'Stone Way' but enough armies had perished trying to invade that.. well, one gets the idea. A great place for an ambush.

"This is where we leave you." The Kingsguard spoke from atop his white destrier.

"My thanks Ser Staunton." Moredo sat atop his own horse as the Kingsguard pulled on the reigns of his steed and galloped off with his fellow knights. Moredo stood alone now but for the handful of hedge knights and sellswords he'd recruited on the ride down from King's Landing. King Aegon had provided coin for sellswords, his way of helping without being seen to help. It was enough coin for a small company... nothing great... but it was certainly appreciated. A party of dornishmen approached from the horizon.

Moredo pushed his horse forward into a gallop to meet the dornishmen haft way, leaving his swords behind to watch the talks. Or to watch for the ambush...

"Ser Rogare?" The lead dornishman asked, atop his sand steed. Slimmer and swifter than Moredo's far heavier warhorse.

"Aye," Moredo replied, eyes darting up to the nearby mountainside looking for hidden archers. Or worse, crossbows. "and you are?"

"Ser Olyvar Yronwood." The young man spoke with pride. "the Princess bid us escort you to Sunspear. You were expected to be alone..."

"A pleasure, Ser Olyvar." Larra introduced herself with her usual sweet smile. "I am Larra Rogare."

"Larra Targaryen, last I heard." Yronwood replied. If it was an attempt to unsettle Larra, it did not work.

Moredo debated telling him that Aegon had bought him the sellswords, but thought better of making too much mention of the dragonlords. _"No need to frighten the locals."_ He thought with a smirk, while they were at 'peace' all knew relations between the Kingdoms and Dorne were strained at best. "I hired some sellswords to aid us."

"Us, is it?" Olyvar returned a smirk of his own, moving his gaze away from Larra.

"I don't fear some kingdom blades." The man mounted beside Olyvar spoke, leaning forward in his saddle to get a closer look.

"As my friend here says," Olyvar kept his smirk. "your blades are welcome. If they try anything-"

"-you'll gut them like pigs." Moredo interrupted.

Olyvar replied with a simple, "Quite." Turning his steed around assuming Moredo would follow his lead. He did. These were dornish lands and frankly he'd learnt more than enough about these people from his uncle to know that they could either be great friends or great enemies. He hoped his cousins in Sunspear remembered him.

"It's good to see you too Ed." Moredo smiled, prying himself away from the hug his cousin attacked him with upon his arrival .

"Gods," Edric Martell paused. "how long has it been?"

Moredo was unsure in truth, he'd spent years in Dorne with his uncle when he was no more than ten and two. "Five years?" His time in Dorne was one of his fonder memoirs, training with every weapon he could get his hands on, alongside Edric, his mother had been a gracious host even then. Looking back at it she certainly didn't need to be.

Edric shrugged. "We'll leave the details to the fucking maesters, but it's been too long."

"That it has." A sweet voice came from behind Edric.

"Princess." Moredo and Larra bowed, heads low, remembering their curtsies.

"No need for all that," Aliandra smiled. "we are family after all. I have somebody for you to meet actually my dears..."

A small child, barely five or six by Moredo's best guess, ran up to Edric and hid behind his leg. "My brother," Edric explained. "meet your cousins, Moredo and Larra Rogare."

"Father?" The child looked at Moredo with wide-eyes, tilting his head.

Moredo stared at the child, at a loss for words.

"No," Aliandra answered the boy, sadness evident in her voice. "this is-"

She couldn't finished before the littlest Martell fled the room, pushing past the armed guards at the door. "He's taking it hard," Edric explained with a sigh. "fathers loss has... it's not been easy keeping a straight face while knowing the truth of it all. We-" Edric had lowered his eyes, fighting back tears or so Moredo assumed. He was still young himself.

"We have kept my husbands murder a closely kept secret, for now." Aliandra's smile died, she was a beautiful women, Moredo remembered well but age and grief had taken it's toll. Despite all of that she was still one of the most beautiful women he'd laid eyes on. Her uncle was a lucky bastard, he himself had admitted the fact many times.

"Then they wont see us coming..."

"No." Aliandra's smile returned.

"Thank you for this," Moredo paused. "you didn't have to-"

"We are family." Edric grasps Moredo's shoulder with a smirk of his own. Lys would be ill prepared for the might of Dorne matched with Moredo's sellswords and the fury of House Rogare. In truth this would be the first real battle he'd experienced... he was terrified... but he would not show it. Lys was his by rights and there would be great changes upon his families return to power. No more greedy backstabbing magisters. No more division. Moredo would changed Lys itself, for the better, for House Rogare and her allies.

* * *

The merchant fleet of Lys had either fled or sunk to the depths of the sea, many failing to make it out of the docks before the might of the dornish fleet crashed into them like waves against rock; accompanied by a number of galleys from King's Landing that Moredo would need to thank his brother-in-law for later, officially the throne had taken no part but there was no evidence to link King Aegon to what would become known as the Rogare's Return. Moredo found himself on the docks, the battle not yet done.

"To the Prince!" Moredo rallied his men, drawing Truth out from the gut of a slave solider with one effortless motion.

"About time you showed up." Prince Edric smirked, a large ugly gash evidence across his forearm.

Moredo clasped his cousin on the shoulder quickly before Rogare and Martell joined forces for the final push into the city itself. Lys, like most of the so called Free Cities, did not have use of levies like the kingdoms of Westeros. In place of such they relied on sellswords and poorly trained (but numerous) slave armies, something Moredo would change.

The first row of slaver soldiers went limp as a volley of dornish arrows rained down, removing them from the battle before the battle had even begun. What followed was a slaughter as Moredo and his group dashed over the arrow-filled fallen and cut into the slaves already stunned by the loss of their fellows. "Rogare!" the men cheered as they pushed though the long winding alleys of Lys. "Rogare!", "Martell!", "Justice!". Victory it seems was all but achieved.

Moving up through the cobbled streets all but unopposed the Rogare Palace, a four story mansion with a lush garden and most importantly below the ground, the Rogare vaults. _"Home."_ Moredo thought in silence, not failing to note that the ornate silver gate had been ripped down and the front doors to his family home torn down.

"How many?" Edric move dup beside him, sword bloodied and a smug grin on his lips.

"I counted five," one of the men that had followed Moredo since he departed the flagship answered for him. "perhaps more."

"It no matter," Moredo dismissed the notion. He'd come this far and every fool, no matter the number, that stood between him and his home would die. "the city is ours and the day won." These men were still camped in his home however, bickering among themselves by the sounds of things. "We'll make short work of the rats that remain..."

"Do we use a signal?" Edric asked innocently.

Moredo looked at his cousin and smiled. "I'll show you."

Slowly drawing Truth from it's scabbard he yelled "Truth and Glory!" as he walked casually towards the broken doors of his family home. Those inside rushed through the doorway to meet the aggressor and what they saw was a lone man with a silver sword that shun in the shining mid-day sun. They charged, odds seeming to be in favor.

Moredo side-stepped to dodge the first strike from the oncoming wave of fools, cutting through the shaft of a spear and then cutting the wielders throat with his back swing. Another cried out at the loss of his fellow slave, raising his sword high. Moredo grabbed the blade mid-swing with his plated gauntlet instantly followed by a swift lunge between the eyes, into and out the back of the mans skull. Tossing his kill aside like a ragdoll, Moredo gutted yet another of the slaver soldiers in quick succession before continuing onward, a beacon to those standing with Edric in awe of what they were witnessing. No man, yet alone an ill-trained slave, was a match for the Dragon of Lys. He looked at the scene around him as the remaining slaves were cut down in droves, his home was secured. All that remained was to raise up his family banner; in the past a mere golden chalice holding flame. After reclaiming his homeland Moredo took for himself the sigil of a two-headed ornate gold dragon breathing fire on a field of black. The dragon would first and foremost represent the Rogare valyrian heritage, the gold their wealth, the fire R'hllor, and finally the two heads for Truth and Glory.

In the years that followed the Bank of Rogare only grew in strength with reinforced trade between Lys and Westeros. Moredo 'the Dragon' Rogare would go on to marry his cousin Nymeria Martell in an effort to continue relations with Sunspear, fruitful efforts that would bind Dorne and Lys for generations to come. Lys became the only 'True' Free City of Essos, as the Rogare's would boast, while not _free_ of slavery those slaves born in Lys were granted certain freedoms that angered the other slaver cities going as far as to name children born of Lys slaves as 'freeborn' that hold the same rights as any citizen, rather the the children of slaves being born into slavery. More often than not freeborn boys would inspire to become warriors or merchants while girls would aim to become traders and marry to improve their families standing. Over the years, the cities dependence on sellsword companies would diminish as the freeborn citizens of Lys began to outnumber the slaves. House Rogare encouraged this with the saying _"we, valyrias children."_

Lys enjoyed a golden age of peace, the other free cities not willing to anger the House of Rogare or it's powerful friends although more than once trade was ceased in an effort to weaken the Rogare bank. Those efforts failed all but completely, hurting the other Free Cities far more than it hurt Lys. This golden age lasted until the year 259 AC when the Band of Nine managed to sack and take Tyrosh before moving to seize the Stepstones. Suddenly, this lowly band became a threat, one that could no longer be ignored.

* * *

 **Q &A**

Q: When is the main story set?  
A: Robert's Rebellion and beyond that.

Q: Moredo married his cousin?!  
A: Welcome to a Medieval society.

Q: Who are the main characters and in what dose the main story (Roberts Rebellion+) begin?  
A: You'll have to wait and see. Chapter 1&2 build on the history. Chapter 3 is where we truly begin.

Q: Truth and Glory. We have seen the sword Truth, but no Glory. What the hell?  
A: Truth is the family sword. Glory is another Rogare sword, to be introduced later.

Q: How long will it be between updates? I hope this doesn't slow down writing on your other fanfics.  
A: Awhile. This is an early look at my next project, but my focus is on 'Long and Sharp' and 'The Sunset Starks'.

Q: What happened to the Rogare's in canon? Where are they in 'our' timeline?  
A: This chapter is based on what happened to the Rogare's. Moredo's sister did marry the Targaryen prince. His brother was killed and Moredo did lead an army to retake Lys and avenge his brothers murder but in canon it is assumed he failed since obviously, Lys was not taken and the Rogare's vanished. We differ there, and Moredo won.

Q: Lys against all the Free Cities? Impossible.  
A: It would be impossible yes, but the Rogare family has blood ties to not only the Martells but the Targaryens too along with vast riches and doubtless many debts to call on since rivalry with the Iron Bank is bound to get you a large number of people in your pocket. Full scale war? Never happened, ignoring that the Free Cities only ever skirmish between themselves, short of trade embargoes (that wouldn't strangle Lys trade, due to Westeros) the others would never do much but complain and offer empty threats.

Q: Moredo is a follower of R'hllor? So, the House of Rogare worship the Lord of Light?  
A: One of the greatest temples of R'hllor is said to stand in Lys and the faith is rather popular in Essos, so it would be fairly safe to assume the family would not worship the Seven but instead be more inclined to adopt it or perhaps already held to it for years. However, as the last Dragon died R'hllor weakened. Do they still hold to the faith so many years down the line as Robert's Rebellion? Some may, others may not. Also of note is that many Lyseni worship a love goddess whose naked figure graces Lys coinage. However the 'love goddess' strikes me as something perhaps pushed on the slaves by the masters to make the pillow houses seem... less sinful. Who knows?


	2. Chapter 2: Ninepenny Kings

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

* * *

Notes: You can consider this Part2 of the introduction. Chapter 3 will introduce the 'current/pov' characters and still begin some time before Robert's Rebellion with the Rogare's taking a part in that era and beyond it. I have many OC's from the Rogare family and have a _lot_ of ideas for those characters.

* * *

 **Chapter 2:** **Ninepenny Kings**

Lys was no stranger to fools fighting over the Disputed Lands for after all they did not call them disputed without good cause. Usually the city of Lys would ignore the petty squabbles of the other 'Free' Cities so long as they kept out of Lys business; and they knew better than to cross that line. The Band of Nine had crossed that line. Overrunning the Disputed Lands? It barely warranted taking notice. The sacking of Tyrosh? It was cause for notice but not for action. Then they marched on the Stepstones, conquering them with ease, burning what trade ports Lys held on the small islands. This the city of Lys could not ignore. The Dragons of Lys had awoken, and they were furious.

"Moredo Rogare, known as the Dragon of Lys." A man with a silver band in his hair and the typical traits of valyrian heritage spoke to his young son as they walked down a hall decorated with the ornate dragon banners of House Rogare hung proudly behind large statues of men long dead. "He brought our family back from the edge of ruin."

The man and his son, a young boy of barely five years, continued down the hall until they reached another statue of note.

"Daevon Rogare," this statue had a stern and almost judging look etched on the face, Truth readily at the statues side. "known as the Defiant for his refusal to allow Daeron Targaryen's fleets to invade Dorne. The Young Dragons uncle was married to a Rogare while Daevon's own blood was Martell through his mother; thus he refused to take a side while openly threatening to sink any ships that tried to invade Dorne _or_ Westeros on equal measure. We were officially neutral, but relations have been sour ever since."

The pair walked down some length to the next statue of note, as hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway.

"Brother!" A voice halted the man and his son.

"Aevar." The man turned to face his brother, placing a protective hand on his son. "What's the meaning of this?"

The man, one Aevar Rogare, stood flanked by a handful of palace guardsmen. "Targaryens," he replied with a low growl.

That word alone was enough to make the older man scowl. "Daegon." He looked down at his son with a smile for the boys sake. "run to your mother now."

Daegon blinked and tilted his head, confused and concerned.

"Go!" His father barked. "Run along boy!"

Daegon ran. He'd never seen his father like this. Not once, or at least as far back as he could recall, had his father raised his voice to him. "Mother." The boy's mind kept repeating the word. So, he ran to his mother. He had no clue what he was supposed to say or what was happening, but he'd be safe with his mother. He knew that much.

"They arrived mere moments ago." Aevar explained as they walked.

"How many?" Daegon's father asked, not ceasing in his quickened pace.

"A messenger," Aevar said simply. "and a handful of guards."

It seemed that King Jaehaerys II Targaryen feared the 'Band of Nine' meant to win the Seven Kingdoms for Maelys the Monstrous, who styled himself King Maelys I Blackfyre. But he hoped, no differently than Lys, that the alliance of rogues would founder in Essos or fall at the hands of another alliance in the Free Cities. As that did not happen, the thin and scrawny king, who did not lack for courage or intelligence, resolved to meet the Ninepenny Kings upon the Stepstones, choosing to take the war to them.

This is how Aevar found himself standing beside his older brother with one hand resting firmly on Glory, the jeweled valyrian steel blade of his house, twin to the blade Turth. Owning not one but two valyrian blades was a point of great pride for the family, and envy to those that wished to own just one of their own. Aevar looked down at the Targaryen envoy with distaste; the Sunset Kingdoms had been no friend of Lys ever since the Conquest of Dorne. To have them here now was... unsettling...

"His Grace," the envoy began. "Jaehaerys Targaryen, Second of his name. King of the Andals, the First Men and the-"

"Enough with the bloody titles!" Aevar interrupted the man with a roar befitting any dragon.

"I concur." Aevar's brother learnt forward on his throne of fused black stone. It was said that the chair was craved during the days of Old Valyria when Dragonlords ruled over the city. Now the Rogare's sat it, two banners hung on either side of the seat. An ornate two-headed dragon on a field of black. "State your business, envoy, and be done with it."

"As you wish, Prince." The man took a moment to regain his composure. "His Grace asks if you are aware of the rogues calling themselves the Band of Nine."

"You ask if we are blind?" Once more, Aevar growled at the man.

"We are quite aware of one of the Free Cities being sacked on our very doorstep, envoy."

"As if he could miss such a thing." Aevar added with his usual spite and a roll of his eyes. "You bloody fool..."

"I-" The envoy hesitated under the stare of the two dragons, one more dangerous looking than the other. "His Grace seeks to rid himself of the pests and the one calling himself Maelys Blackfyre, the First of his Name and King of... the..." The glare of Aevar caused the envoy to take a single gulp and get to the point. "His Grace offers an alliance..."

"An alliance." Aevar's brother spoke first, intrigued.

"Yes, My Prince." The envoy bowed his head. "His Grace is of the belief that, together as your great houses were so long ago, you could easily be rid of this common enemy." Aevar could see the wheels rolling forward in his brothers head. He too could see the potential in such an arrangement. The increased trade alone could see Lys back into a new golden age. Ever since the Conquest of Dorne trade with the West had slowed, as the Iron Throne ceased coming to Lys first for all it's easterly needs.

However. "Common enemy?" Aevar smirked. "The last I checked, Maelys Blackfyre has no quarrel with Lys."

"That may be so, Prince Aevar." The envoy kept from making eye contact. "But the man has already sacked one of the Free Cities, who's to say Lys will not be next?"

A fire burnt behind Aevar's eyes. "Is that a threat you insolent little-"

His brother held a hand up to silence him. "The Band _is_ a threat, brother. To trade if not to Lys directly..."

"It's always about trade with you." Aevar sighed.

"That is why father picked me to rule brother," he smiled. "and not you."

"My Princes." The envoy spoke once more. "Do you have an answer for His Grace?"

"In the morning, envoy." The Prince of Lys spoke in his usual lordly tone. "You will have your answer then."

In the end Lys was backed into a corner of sorts. They could refuse, but doing so would give the Iron Throne a perceived insult and leave them to be victorious and claim the glory for themselves, or fail and hold a grudge assuming they held onto the throne afterwards. And, in the event that Blackfyre won, it was doubtful that he would forget the Rogare steel that fought the first Blackfyre, Daemon Waters, so long ago. After little thought the Prince made his decision. Maelys Blackfyre's days were numbered.

* * *

Rogare and Targaryen banners flew side by side above the largest tent in the center of a host numbering around twenty thousand knights and men-at-arms, boasting arms from the Stromlands, Westerlands and even a handful of Ironborn whom had docked at Lys with one hundred longships on the orders of King Jaehaerys. Together the two dragon banners seemed oddly at peace fluttering in the breeze, a sight none had seen in years. As the second Prince of Lys and wielder of Glory the duty of leading Lys into battle fell to Aevar while his brother, the wielder of Truth, stayed at home to ensure the armies would _have_ a home to return to at the end of days. It was the way of things.

Aevar passed under the twin dragons and entered the grand tent to be greeted by a number of unfamiliar faces gathered around a table. "Prince Aevar Rogare, the Sword of Glory." A man announced his arrival, grabbing the attention of the unfamiliar faces. King Jaehaerys was not here, although it was rumored he'd intended to be, before his hand Ormund Baratheon convinced him otherwise; taking command for himself. Lord Baratheon was the first to speak.

"Prince Aevar." Ormund bowed his head slightly.

"Lord Ormund." Aevar returned the gesture, eyeing the others in attendance with curiosity bordering on suspicion.

"You've met Lord Greyjoy."

He had indeed. Greyjoy had sailed around Dorne with some hundred longboats and sought port in Lys before sailing to where they stood now, on the largest of the Stepstones not far from where Maelys Blackfyre was gathering his men. "Lord Greyjoy." Aevar showed the man what courtesy he could muster for an Ironborn.

Baratheon seemed to note the tension, opting to move on. "Ser Tywin Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock."

"Prince." Tywin bowed his head ever so slightly.

"Is Lord Lannister not joining us?" Aevar asked, keeping his eyes on the young Tywin.

The boys face made a scowl at mention of his fathers absence.

"Lord Tytos is otherwise indisposed." Baratheon explained.

Indisposed. Heh. Aevar had heard enough tales of the Toothless Lion.

Once more, Baratheon moved the introductions onward. "This is my son, Steffon."

The boy was a copy of his father, blue eyes and black of hair and a stature that promised he'd be as strong as his father one day.

"Leaving me for last, Lord Ormund?" A boy with a smirk spoke from Baratheons side. He was no more than six-and-ten by Aevar's guess, tall and handsome with valyrian traits wearing black armor that marked him as a Targaryen. The boys smile had an undeniable charm and Aevar for a brief moment thought of himself at the boys age.

"Prince Aevar." Baratheon snapped the dragon from his thoughts. "Allow me to introduce Prince Aerys Targaryen."

Aerys waved it off. "A pleasure, Prince Aevar. I hope our families can continue to work together in the future."

The boy had a sincere smile, marched by the young Lannister and Baratheon too. _"They are friends."_ Aevar thought. Only a Prince and already making alliances that would no doubt secure his reign. Again, it reminded him of himself at that age. Idealistic. Aevar pitied the young dragon. He'd inherit a Throne. Aevar inherited a sword, and a sword was far more reliable and required less boring meetings and diplomacy. Yes. Aevar would happily pick his sword over that an ugly chair of spikes.

But he was being rude and those gathered were beginning to think him simple. "Yes," He replied at last with a thin smile. "we feel the same."

Aerys gave a nod in response, content that he'd gained another ally this day.

There were those on the table that Baratheon did not see fit to introduce. The Kingsguard was of the greatest note, among them Ser Gerold Hightower, but Aevar knew the names already and would not waste time introducing himself. He'd seek them out on the battlefield, to fight beside them and see if the tales of skill held any truth.

* * *

The host continued along; keeping a vigil on their flanks encase of any surprise attacks... although that seemed unlikely given Blackfyres last reported movements. Lord Baratheon however would not tale any chances. Maelys Blackfyre's host was waiting for them when they arrived, seemingly tossing any great strategic plan to the wind by forcing a pitched battle that neither side could retreat from. The battle would take place here and now. This would be the first combat Aevar had partaken in, far from it in truth, he'd spent his early years at five-and-ten fighting in the Disputed Lands, battled against countless pirates and won many a competition of skill. This was just another fight.

Ormund Baratheon's host numbered some twenty-five thousand by the time the armies gathered from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms. The bulk came from the Westerlands as when the King called upon a Warden he had no choice but to answer. Lord Baratheon brought many of his own levies, naturally, and a fair number of Ironborn sailed with Lord Greyjoy's fleet. There were men from the Reach and a handful from the Riverlands and Vale eager for glory. Lys sent only five thousand with Aevar, leaving the bulk of the cities arms to defend Lys in the unfortunate event that the Westeros host failed. In such an event, Lys would sue for peace, so long as Prince Aevar was not harmed.

The formations of the enemy were predictable, one could say as if taken out of any maesters book. Several rows of nothing but shield and sword and pikes or spears. Behind those were thousands of archers, with longbows for increased range and those with crossbows for pure stopping power; less effective at range but requiring less skill and training, they would end even the most armored of knights if aimed well. Lastly was the assortment of heavy cavalry all graced by the golden banner of the Golden Company. _"So it begins."_ Aevar atop his white destrier. He smiled as he looked out at his foes, muttering some words under his breath.

"Your men are ready?" Lord Baratheon sat beside him atop a black horse, his voice slightly muffled under a great full-plate helm and boasted antlers. The Stag has given himself command of the vanguard and looked to like the Stormkings of old. Aevar almost pitied the enemy for having to face this man. Almost.

"Afraid boy?" Aevar asked the little dragon that rode beside Baratheon and his son.

"I'm a dragon." Prince Aerys replied simply, a confident smirk on his lips.

"As am I." Aevar replied before placing his helm over his head, a thing of simple design, close fitting with a Y-shaped slit made of a strong steel. The rest of his attire consisted of a lightweight breastplate with faulds attached to protect the front waist and hips, along with matching gauntlet and some basic light protection for the legs. The prominent feature was the single pauldron covering his shoulder. While most of his armor was polished steel, the shoulder was painted a dark black and had clearly seen a lot of action.

As was the enemy, in truth, but Aevar kept that thought to himself as the enemy lines began to chant.

"Ours is the Fury!" Lord Baratheon shouted his family words as he drew steel.

"Fire and Blood!" Prince Aerys joined the shouting.

"Hear Me Roar!" Aevar heard the young lion shout, joined by the Westerlanders.

"For Glory!" Aevar drew Glory from it's sheath and swung it for show, the jeweled valyrian steel glittering in the sunlight and raising the spirits of every Lys solider that rode with their prince. Aevar had been certain to hand pick the men that he fought with. Most were veterans from past conflicts, all counting the Prince as a brother-in-arms.

The wind. Horses and men alike showed their impatiences with groans and the clinking of shifting steel. There were no birds, Aevar noticed now, he assumed due to the sizable host and the distant storm forming to the north. Finally, their line began to move forward as the infantry passed by and went onward to begin the battle. It was the screams. Always the screams that reached the ears first, when a volley of lit arrows crashed into the lines of infantry of both sides and felled those unlucky enough to be hit. Aevar heard the whispering sound of arrow shafts tearing the air above his head as Targaryen archers unleashed a final volley at the enemy line before it clashed with their own men.

Aevar noticed it first, wide-eyed. The bowmen of the Golden Company were still unleashing arrows at their men hitting foe and friend alike.

Surprised and being littered with arrows it would only be a matter of time before the Targaryen line broke, with many already attempting to flee from the range of the dreaded arrows, proving themselves as fickle as most levy troops. However, the Lord of Storm's End stood as like a beacon as he rallied his cavalry and lead a charge against the line of archers. Aevar, in haste, rallied his own men and those fleeing the arrows. "To me!" He commanded. "Every man that flees will taste the point of a Lys spear! To me now!"

There was no time to see how Lord Baratheon was handling his own matters, at a glance the Golden Company had sent their own heavy cavalry around to prevent the stormlords charge. Aevar could hear the sounds of steel and the cries of dying men from all corners; the first waves had erupted into chaos. The Westerlanders had positioned themselves to the east lines where Aevar could see a line of Lannister knights crashing into some lightly armored Blackfyres. "Forward!" Aevar yelled. "To the center!"

*THUD* A volley of arrows stuck, one lucky enough to strike Aevar's horse and send him to the cold dirt below.

His men, and those of the first wave that had rallied, crashed into the Blackfyre lines. Those soldiers of Lys had locked shields together low, resting spears and pointing them straight. A second row locked shields higher and held their own steel about head height; no greatly professional shield wall to be certain and hastily made at best. These were largely veterans, not Westeros levies and farmers, gods know how the latter survived even this long without proper training. Aevar got to his feet and took a spot in the middle of the first row of shields. Between the gaps in the shields he could see the enemy recklessly hacking and slashing at his line.

"We hold!" Aevar shouted atop his lungs, drowning out everything else. "We hold the line lads! And we make them bleed for every inch!"

There was no sign of Baratheon, and it was clear the men were tiring. Had it been that long? No matter, the Blackfyre line was pulling back and- "Aim for the mounts!" Aevar cursed the gods, keeping his voice loud and clear despite his growing fear. "High enough to kill the horse and the rider will be helpless!" It was sound advice, and filled his men with some shed of confidence. He knew now why the Blackfyres departed, as a host of mounted knights came thundering towards them and split roughly in haft, the heavy and light mixed, aiming to give one attack to the left while another hammered the right. If successful, they would crumble Aevar's wall.

The cavalry smashed into the wall of shields and steel with a force that seemed to shake the very ground they stood on. The death wails of horse and man alike filled the air and some of the Blackfyre riders urged their mounts away, determined for another shot at the line. Two riders had made it over the shields to the empty zone behind, forcing Aevar to pull away from the shield wall with a final "WE HOLD!" before moving to handle the riders himself. Acting without delay, his sword cut the front legs of the closest riders horse, sending the beast crumbling forward. The rider struggled to get up, one leg pinned under the horses weight.

Aevar carved the mans skull in haft with a swing of Glory before leaving the wounded horse to wail and moving on.

The second rider swung at Aevar's neck from atop his mount. Ducking backwards he avoided the blow easily and took the opening to stab upwards, into the riders swordarm, causing him to drop his blade in agony. Reaching up, he grabbed the mans arm and dragged him out from his saddle. Aevar drove bloodied valyrian steel into the mans neck before tossing his corpse aside. To his joy looking back he found the sight of his shield wall holding firm if not battered.

Taking the moment of peace to scan the battlefield, Aevar noted that Baratheonf lags could be seen on the horizion near the enemies flank. "That charge was desperate." He smirked, it seemed that all would be well. Many sections of the Westeros army were still engaged in conflict while others licked their wounds. "Encircle the bastards!" Aevar yelled in the hopes that his officers would hear. "Victory is close lads!" The sight of their prince returning to the line gave the men renewed strength. "You" Aevar grabbed one of his men out from the wall, he boasted the same valyiran features that many in Lys shared and despite the blood and muck his silver hair stood out clearly. If not a tad dulled. "Get to the left flanks, tell them to push and encircle the center." The man was clearly exhausted, but gave a nod to his prince and followed orders without complaint.

Aevar was struck with an idea. The left flank seemed the lightest in way Blackfyre colors, although it was hard to tell the difference between friend and foe thanks to the blood and muck that graced every man. Still, Aevar smirked as his plan relied as usual on a mix of courage and foolish luck. Hopefully, he would end this here and now.

The remaining men of the Company had made little effort against the wall of shields and steel; while dealing a certainly substantial amount of damage the wall itself refused to buckle. The final nail in the Blackfyre moral however was the lone man smashing out from the wall of shields in the center, a wave of Lys spears and Westeros knights following behind. Aevar's charge caught on quickly, as every man in the wall followed. "FOR GLORY!" He'd cried as his shield wall broke away and pushed into the Blackfyres, a force of men entirely focused on them and too preoccupied to notice their flanks. In fact, had they been of sound mind or had that lone man before before failed to relay his orders, thing would've gone poorly.

The Dragon of Lys roared as he fought, swinging wildly and dodging like the wind. He would dodge and lunge for the joints in his foes armor while taking off limbs one by one like a man possessed. The men that fell to the ground screaming he would leave, moving onto new challengers. He blocked a sword strike with ease and slashed the challengers chest with a back-swing before driving his steel through his visor, into and out the back of the mans skull. With a grunt Aevar pushed the man free from his blade before ducking under the swing of a large battleaxe. The axeman's eyes went wide at having missed, and embedded his axehead inside the stomach of a fellow Blackfyre man that happened to be standing beside Aevar; in the wrong place at the wrong time. Taking the opportunity, Aevar swung his sword and decapitated the axeman, the look of shock still evident on his face as it rolled away onto the muddy and bloodied floor. No time to rest, Aevar dodged another blow, dunking under the wide swing and moving to remove the fools sword-hand at the wrist. Not giving the man time to scream about his lost hand he drove Glory into the mans chest and silenced him in an instant. Kicking the man free from his blade Aevar suddenly felt a sharp pain as a small dagger punched through the armor on his upper left thigh.

The blade was thin and sharp, punching into flesh and muscle.

Before he could react the man withdrew his dagger and made to slash at his chest, but thankfully Aevar's plated chest meant the dagger left nothing but a scratch. Aevar slashed violently at the dagger-wielding cunt, cutting him to ribbons. The man grasped at his wounds and stumbled backwards to the dirt. Grimacing in pain Aevar managed to remain on his feet, doing his best to ignore the pain in his leg. The blood was flowing freely and he couldn't help but recall hearing about a vain in the leg that, once cut, could not be uncut. He could only hope it wasn't that bad... but there was no time to dwell on that now.

He parried the blow of another, countering and pushing despite the burning sensation in his leg.

"VICTORY!" Aevar cheered, watching as the Westeros host cut down the now routing Golden Company.

Just then Aevar cursed loudly as a burning pain lashed across his back. An enemy had taken the opportunity of his turned back to strike, no doubt aiming for his head, yet only succeeding to rake the tip of his sword across his back. With the foes body fulling committed to his failed attack, he was unable to counter as Aevar stuck him over the head with his pommel and processed to cut open his throat with a downwards swing. His line had held, and victory was secured, but it was at great cost.

"To me!" Aevar cried, no time for rest. Blood still flowed from his leg and it burned like the fires of valyria. "Lets ride the bastards down!"

Someone found him a horse, he knew not who exactly and did not remain to ask the mans name. He rallied what knights and riders he could find within shouting distance and rode hard for the crowned stag of House Baratheon. He'd expected to see Lord Ormund. In his place stood his son, bloodied, with dry tears on his cheeks.

"Where is your father boy?!" Aevar had no time for the young stag, he needed to-

"Dead." Steffon Baratheon hung his head.

"I see." Aevar replied with a sigh.

With a hand on young Steffon's shoulder, Prince Aerys spoke. "Maelys the Monstrous is dead." The young prince explained, missing the smirk he'd boasted before the battles beginning. "A young knight cut a bloody path though the Golden Company's ranks to slay him. They say it was a sight to behold!"

"I don't doubt it." Aevar scowled, the pain in his leg was back.

"Your wounded." Prince Aerys said, wide-eyed.

"It's nothing." Aevar waved it aside. "I've had far worse. What of our losses?"

Prince Aerys seemed reluctant to ignore the wound, but wisely thought better of pushing the matter. "With the late Lord Ormund's fall, it's Ser Gerold Hightower that's in command now. Other than his lordship, who's charge was a great success, our losses are minimal. Lord Baratheon will be remembered for his heroics."

"Thank you Aerys." Steffon said sadly.

"Think nothing of it, my friend." Aerys smiled sadly. Maelys the Monstrous was dead, slain by the actions of a young knight named Barristan Selmy whom with a single swing of his sword ended the male line of House Blackfyre. It was hailed as a great victory. And, for Westeros at least, the War of the Ninepenny Kings ended with his death.

"I-" Aevar moved to speak.

"Prince Aevar?" Aerys asked as the man seemed unsteady in his saddle.

The voices faded as the world grew colder, and the last thing Aevar Rogare thought of was how perfectly the Rogare and Targaryen dragons looking flying together in the breeze. He could see them flying even now and he could swear they were real in this instance, for they were too beautiful to be mere pieces of cloth. Far too beautiful.


	3. Chapter 3: The Truth

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

* * *

Notes: This is the first PoV from Daegon Rogare. I'll cover the backstory as I go and fill in some of the gaps between Now and the Ninepenny Kings but in short after the war Daegon's father sought closer ties with the throne and agreed to send his eldest son as a ward in the hopes of future relations. King Jaehaerys II Targaryen accepted, deals were made, and Daegon spent most of his childhood growing up with Rhaegar whom was of a similar age. He's since spent most of his life in Westeros.

* * *

 **Chapter 3: The Truth**

The sound of clashing steel echoed in the night air as two knights fought. After the initial clash they stepped around an imaginary circle. One, with short silver hair that shun in the moonlight, stepped the opposite way, maintaining his distance and prepared to defend against any blow. The second, a full plate helm guarding his features, lunged forward with a centuries old war cry and a greatsword as pale as milkglass. *Clash* The two knights clashed swords, now locked together.

"Today is mine!" The first smiled, holding back the greatsword with all his strength.

"You think so?" The second spoke from beneath his helm, using his strength to push himself free. He swung with all his might and smirked under his helm as he seemed to gain the upper hand, pushing his opponent further and further. He swung forward and his opponent ducked under the blade.

"Ha!" The first chuckled, having easily dodged the strike.

"It seems your tiring." The second mocked, standing idle as his opponent swung his silver sword through the air for show.

The first lunged wide without a retort, his silver longsword cutting the air where his foe once stood, having quickly moved to parry and taken a step closer to swing at the firsts neck. Ducking backwards he avoided the blow easily and took the opening to stab upwards, towards the seconds helm, causing him to take a swift step back.

In the opening the first swung wildly like the Warrior reborn. He would dodge and lunge for the joints in his foes armor like a man possessed. They were moves that would best most men, he knew, but to his frustration his opponent was no such man. He blocked yet another sword strike from the pale greatsword with less and less ease as he began to tire, slashing outward at the challengers chest with a back-swing before driving his steel to parry another blow. "Your breathing appears to be labored." The second mocked him, and he could picture the smirk under his helm. This thought only drove him forward, more determined than ever.

He dodged another blow swung at him, dunking under the wide swing and moving instantly to return the blow only to find it parried once more.

"Almost lost your head there, brother." The second's smirk was larger this time, he _knew_ it.

He lunged wide in response, his anger getting the better of him, as the second quickly moved to parry but took a step closer and brought his pale sword up, warped it around his opponents sword then slid down the outside of his blade, jerking his greatsword inward causing the firsts sword to fly out of his hand. Pale milkglass against his throat.

"Well shit," The first cursed through labored breaths, carefully with a single finger, moving the steel away with his throat. "I almost had you this time."

The second removed his helm, revealing a fair skinned man with pale blond hair and dark purple eyes. He had a smile on his lips, the one the first had pictured.

"Wipe that smirk off your face Dayne."

"Ah," Dayne replied as the smirk grew. "but how else would I teach you humility Ser?"

"I'll win one of these days, you know."

"I'm certain you will brother." Dayne kept his smirk. "Perhaps when I am old and grey? Hm?"

The first rolled his eyes, sheathing his blade into it's scabbard.

"Daegon Rogare." A new voice arrived, coming from a man what appeared from the shadows of a ruined doorway. "How can a man be expected to sleep soundly with the clashing of steel outside his window, hm?" The man was tall and beautiful, with dark indigo eyes and the silver hair, worn long.

"My Prince." Dayne bowed his head in the mans presence.

"Rhae." Daegon addressed the newcomer. "I was just keeping Dayne here on his toes."

A smile crept onto Rhaegar's face.

"In his dreams, perhaps."

"Never you mind my dreams, Dayne."

Rhaegar shook his head at the antics.

"You had your beauty sleep Rhae?" Daegon asked.

"In a hurry brother?"

"Might be I am," Daegon replied to Dayne. "some of us can _beat_ Rhae in a tourney Dayne."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Daegon smirked. "that you've gotten unhorsed by him in every tourney lately."

"I never-"

Daegon continued, taking a seat on a ruined section of wall. "It was Storm's End, no? You broke _twelve_ lances against him. It was twelve, no? An impressive defeat indeed. How many did it take me again brother? My memory is not what it once was..." Dayne simply shook his head and refused to answer.

"Maybe he shouldn't knock you over the head be much?" Another man spoke from behind Rhaegar, tall with brown hair and a helm emblazoned with a black bat with its wings spread under his arm. Daegon rose to the new challenger with his usual confident smirk and a hand on Truth's hilt. Rhaegar stood between the two, unimpressed.

"Arthur bested me at Lannisport," he interrupted the two. "you seem to forget, Daegon."

Daegon rolled his eyes. "That tourney was rigged."

"He made you eat dirt, as I recall."

"You want to go Whent?" Daegon offered, unsheathing Truth haft way. The valyrian steel shun like the morning sun. "You and me, right now!"

"Gladly." Whent replied, stepping forward only to be blocked by hand of Rhaegar.

"We're leaving in the hour." The Prince explained, snapping Daegon and Whent out of whatever childish rivalry they had.

"Saved by the dragon." Daegon smirked.

Whent seemed unimpressed, ignoring his challenger and following Rhaegar away like his own shadow.

"Shall we continue?" Dayne asked, resting his hands atop of his greatswords pommel. Dawn, it was called, pale as milkglass and formed from a fallen star; or so the legends claimed. Truth had no such fanciful tale. House Rogare's valyrian steel was bought and paid as a show of wealth and prestige. Glory was the most recent addition, made instead of the ambitious idea of 'Valyrian Armor', quickly dismissed as the dream of a mad man. No, instead Glory was forged, a second blade for the second dragons head.

Daegon, as the eldest, was given Turth when he came of age. His brother was given Glory, a fine blade adorned with gold and diamonds.

Truth clashed against Dawn in a flurry of wild strikes, giving Dayne no time to prepare. No man could claim Daegon fought with honor. He fought to win and not end up dead; he was far too young for death, or so he'd tell himself repeatably. "Not today." Dayne smirked, pushing forward and freeing himself from the clashing of steel.

Daegon swung Truth in the air, showing off as he often did, with the usual smirk on his lips. He'd come to miss these sparring matches.

* * *

They left the Ruins of Summerhall behind and rose north to Harrenhal, where Lord Walter Whent would doubtless open them with open arms. His brother, Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard, rode with them after all; and no lord would turn away the crown prince. Only months back Rhaegar had met with Lord Whent and surely enough, suddenly the man announced a tourney to honor this or that. Something to do with the mans daughter? Daegon didn't care, but he did wager that Rhaegar was paying for it.

The rewards offered by Walter were three times greater than those offered by Lord Tywin Lannister in the tourney in honor of Prince Viserys's birth at Lannisport in 276 AC. Such lavish prizes offered were bound to bring hundreds of challengers to the tourney where Lord Walter would present his massive castle and alleged wealth.

The Riverlander cow was leaner than it's northern cousin. Don't ask Daegon how he knew that, he'd despised the lessons with a passion. Unlike it's northern cousins, with coats of fur so thick peasants sheared them to make clothes and blankets, the southern cow had no such coat. Not a single part of the animal was left to go to waste however as this appeared to be the same north or south. The bones were milled into meal and sown in the fields to make the crops grow strong, the marrow was boiled to make broth, the balls and the rest of that area were usually thrown to the dogs or given to the poor. The organs were made into sausages and given to the guards...or to the Night's Watch in the north, as a good dry beef sausage could last for nearly a year in a cupboard...and forever, if kept cool in a buttery underground. The smell of hearty beef and ale stew wafted through the air strongly, making Daegon's belly growl. Round loaves were flipped in the wood ovens, trenchers, ready for the households. Plates of trifle pewter were cleaned and another cask of ale rolled up from the buttery, not drinking but to be added to the sauces. His mouth watered, but he forced himself onward... past a small basket of little buns decorated with the seven sided star, smelling ever so slightly of cinnamon and raisins. They were for the sept, Daegon learnt later from the prince, for one of the holidays of the Faith. Something to do with Hugor of the Hill? Again, Daegon hated that he knew these things. If he couldn't fight or kill with it he'd then rather just not know it.

The ceiling in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths was high, with thick oaken rafters holding up a steep roof. Thirty-four or thirty-five hearth and floors of smooth slate. The dais was wide and high, big enough that a dozen could be feasted on the high table in comfort and a few thousand more beneath the salt, maybe more if they removed the proud statues that lined the walls. Tapestries rot, paintings fade... but statues were forever. It was said that this hall could host an army, in it's prime. Even now, a ruin, Harrenhal was the greatest castle Daegon had laid eyes on. With colossal curtain walls, sheer, and high as great mountain cliffs.

"More wine, m'lord?" Daegon heard one of the servents ask.

"I'll not object," The lord said, holding up his cup. Daegon did not know his name. "A fine red."

"It's dornish, you fool." Another lord to the firsts left shouted over him and gestured, as the serving man poured. Daegon felt sorry for the servant as he looked down from the high dais at the bickering lords, a candle lit table flickering as one spat out not too subtle insults. "Dornish is not often so rich, you should learn to appreciate it!"

"It's from the Arbor!" The other lord with a snarl, taking a sip, looking like a pompous bastard in Daegon's silent opinion.

"I'm pleased you like it m'lord but..."

"With _your_ vineyards, Bracken." The lord took another sip. "I cant say I'm surprised at your inadequacy..."

Somewhere in the hall a man covered his mouth and belched. "Oh my," he said, and they both ignored the other guests like they were nothing but one of the ghosts said to be haunting the halls of theses ruins. Harren the Black and his sons, to name a few, along with the countless dead slaves used by him to build his legacy. "that's a mighty big word you just used, Blackwood. Did it strain you? Perhaps you should lay down for a moment and rest..."

Daegon sighed, the bickering of these lords reminded him of home. He sat with Princess Elia to his right and Lord Whent to her right. Rhaegar sat to the lords right, whispering in his ear about whatever he was plotting. It annoyed Daegon, in truth, that he'd been kept out of the plan. He accepted a cup of wine from a serving lass and offered her a sly look that caused her to blush and continue at her duties. She was a pretty thing, although no match to Elia in his honest opinion. He was enjoying the meal for the most part despite the looming threat of politics and whatever Rhaegar was planning, he supposed the oxtail soup, summer greens with pecans, grapes, red funnel and crumbled cheese, hot crab pie, spiced squash, and quails drowned in butter were all ample distraction from the worries of the real world. He took a sip of wine and noticed Elia's cup was empty.

"More wine Princess?"

"No." She smiled sweetly, "I couldn't drink another glass."

Daegon offered a smile of his own in reply and kept his thoughts to himself before turning his attention back to the hall. Elia was like a sister to him, having grown up at King's Landing as a ward a short time after the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Rhaegar and Arthur were more brothers to him than his own flesh and blood brother...

The thought caused him to drink deep from his glass, drowning it in blood red arbor wine.

In the great hall he could see Stark and Baratheon seated closely, with the Arryn and Tully tables as close to them as they could muster. The Northmen and Stormlanders were loud and boisterous, deep in the cups, laughing and enjoying themselves. Daegon took an instant liking to them, compared to the Tyrell and Lannister tables that were almost silent in comparison. At the Stark table he eyed a young women punch a mans shoulder, causing the others to laugh.

"Someone catch your eye?" Elia smirked.

Daegon went wide-eyed for a moment, but quickly regained his composure.

"Aye," he replied with confidence. "my breath was away away by the shocking length of that serving girls skirt..."

Elia rolled her eyes. "That _serving_ girl you were staring at, would be Lord Starks daughter."

"I don't stare."

"You did."

"Did not."

The pair laughed, gaining Lord Whents attention.

"Enjoying yourself Princess?"

Elia offered her usual sweet smile. "Very much so, my lord. A fine feast."

"And finer company." Daegon added, as he accepted more wine from the serving girl whom assumed he was speaking of her.

Daegon laid his eyes on Arthur, sat with his sister, a wide smile on his face as they talked.

"Prince Daegon." A voice snapped him to attention.

The voice belonged to one of Lord Whent's sons, he knew, named... actually he couldn't recall the boys name and didn't honestly care. He was busy shoving a piece of roasted boar into his mouth and spat as he spoke. "Can I help you with something, Ser?" Daegon offered with narrowed eyes. "a napkin perhaps?"

The boy was too drunk or simple to notice the insult.

"I wanted to-" He belched, using his sleeve to wipe away the juice from the boar. "I wanted to ask. Lys, what's it like?"

Daegon didn't recall much of his home, actually, he'd be sent to King's Landing as a boy. "It's-"

"I hear the women are goddesses!" Whent's son smirked. "And the bed-slaves? To die for! You've tried a few in your day no doubt eh?"

"We've no slaves." Daegon growled at the mention, the days of that were long done by now. Once upon a time perhaps one could claim as such but nowadays Lys was a Free City in a way that none of the others could boast. The citizens of Lys were citizens, and wore no collars. They did have whores, like any city, but no slaves...

"Nonsense!" The Whent lad laughed, spilling is ale in the process as he carelessly swayed his mug in the air with a wave of his hand. "I- I don't judge, just asking for a friend!" He moved to drink from his mug onyl to wind it empty. The contents had long since fled across the table and socked his food. "Some bastard stole my drink!"

"You have drank it all Ser Whent." Elia offered from over his shoulder.

"I-" He seemed to sober up at the sound of her voice.

"You should get some rest nephew." The wisdom of Ser Oswell, the boys uncle, seemed enough to get through to him.

The boy left the table with muttered apologies to Elia, swaying slightly as he moved to his chambers to sleep it off and prepare for the tourney that was set for tomorrow. "He'll feel that tomorrow." Daegon commented to the boys uncle. "Although, it's better than had I floored the fool I suppose..."

"You wouldn't have." Elia dismissed the notion.

"You doubt me Princess?" Daegon asked, a smirk on his lips.

"Your kinder than you know."

His smirk died and his eyes darted back to the Stark girl, laughing with those he assumed were her kinsmen and friends. She was louder than any noble lady of the county he'd seen before, seemingly uncaring who heard her enjoy herself. The sound of the great oaken doors swinging wide snapping him from his thoughts.

"Presenting," the herald announced as the great hall of lords turned to see the new arrivals. "his Grace, Aerys Targaryen. Second of His Name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Mem. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." The herald read of the mans titles as if his life depending on it, and from what Daegon knew of the Mad King, it likely did. This was to his knowledge the first time Aerys had left the Red Keep since the Defiance of Duskendale...

"Father." Rhaegar was heard muttering to himself with a scowl.

The king had not taken care of his appearance since the Defiance. His fear of blades meant he'd not permit his hair to be cut, or his nails to be groomed. His hair and beard were unwashed, matted and tangled, and his nails were yellow and grew nine inches in length. His fear and paranoia of poison had made him thin and gaunt. The Lords and knights int he great hall were appalled at what their monarch had become, despite their attempts to hide it. Nor was his behavior that of a sane man, as he entered the room full of mirth and moved to melancholy at a snap of the fingers. "Son!" He spoke as he entered, a seemingly genuine smile on his lips.

Rhaegar stood from his seat. "Welcome, father. I was not expecting you."

In an instant, the mans mood shifted. "I was not invited!"

Lord Whent moved to defend the notion. "I assure you, Your Grace, that-"

"Save me your honeyed words Whent," the man scowled as he walked towards the dais. "did you think me too frail and old for a tourney? Hm?!"

"N- No, Your Grace." Whent's eyes darted to Rhaegar for an instant.

"Don't look to him!" Aerys snarled.

"Father if you-"

A burst of hysterical laughter silenced the room, as a smirk returned to the kings lips.

"Ah," he croaked. "my lord. An honest mistake I'm sure."

"I-" Whent's confusion was matched by his guests, whom all shared hushed whispers.

"Come!" Aerys laughed. "Let us drink and feast!"

His bouts of hysterical laughter, long silences, sudden rages and occasional weeping made all present weary throughout the remainder of the feast and would continue to keep all on edge int he tourney to come. The King ignored Daegon throughout, as if he hadn't been the mans ward all his childhood. Daegon wondered if he cared. Or if he even remembered who he was. The herald spoke again as the king made his way up to the dais and claimed Lord Whent's seat for himself.

"Presenting," the herald cleared his throat. "Vaegon Rogare. Prince of Lys and the Sword of Glory."

The man in question was the spitting image of Daegon, with only his light unshaven beard telling the two apart. He wore all the finery of a prince with a golden dragon clasp holding a fine silk cloak in place. On his hip in a black-and-gold scabbard sat Glory, it's hilt adorned with gems worth more than a kings ransom. He walked towards the dais flanked by fifty or so Lys royal guards; known for their harsh training and undying loyalty to the Rogare family. Prince Vaegon smiled up at his twin.

"Is there a seat spare for me, Your Grace?"

Aery's eyes darted down at him. "Hm?" He seemed to forget where he was for a moment.

Vaegon stood in silence as the hall held it's breath.

"Yes!" Aerys finally snapped, laughing heartily. "Yes, yes! What are you waiting for Daegon?!"

Vaegon blinked at that, eyes darting to his brother whom motioned him to sit quickly.

"Princess," Vaegon spoke as he took the empty seat beside his brother. "you look well."

Elia offered her usual sweet smile. "It's good to see you Prince Vaegon."

"What are you doing in Westeros brother?"

Vaegon didn't falter to the challenge. "Can I not visit my wayward twin?"

"You can," Daegon replied with none of his usual charm. "but you've never come before..."

His brother sighed. "It's father."

"What of him?"

Vaegon waited as his cup was filled. "He's-"

"Dead?"

"No!" Vaegon almost choked on the wine. "Gods no. Not yet at least."

If the old man wasn't dead then he was near enough to send his brother after him, Daegon knew, not once had his twin visited since they were boys.

"He's ill."

Daegon scoffed, earning a scowl from his twin.

"He wants you home brother."

"He has you, _brother_." Daegon drank him his cup. "He doesn't need me."

"He gave you the sword. Not me."

That was true, he knew, but he'd rather have had the mans attention than his steel.

"You'll come home."

Daegon laughed bitterly. "You sound so certain, little brother."

"We both have our duties." Vaegon replied simply, opting to stubbornly leave the discussion there.

Daegon merely stared at his little brother, younger by barely minutes, as he poured himself another drink. Elia placed her hand atop the clenched fist that he wasn't aware he'd made, calming him in an heartbeat at the contact. He ignored his brother for the rest of the feast and grabbed the pitcher to pour himself another drink.

* * *

There was a desk with papers in the far corner some swords on the walls. The chambers Lord Whent had given him were large, well decorated and fit for a prince. The thing that stood out most however was the olive skinned beauty laid out on the bed, with large dark eyes, black hair and full lips. "Prince." She smiled, beckoning him over with her finger.

"It seems your lost my lady." He replied coyly. "These are _my_ chambers."

She smirked. "I am no lady."

"I'd have to disagree." Daegon stared at her as she slowly moved a shoulder, the strap falling.

"Care to join me little dragon," She paused. "although perhaps little is the wrong word..."

He huffed in mild amusement. "Your a bold one."

Time flew by and Daegon did not think to ask or care who the dornish women was. Not a maindmaiden of Elia's, for he knew each of them well, so he assumed her to be a daughter of some dornish noble that was here with the Martells for the tournament. "I could stay with you, my prince." She spoke after kissing him, a delaying tactic to be sure. He dismissed the notion of her being a nobleman's daughter. A whore then? And an ambitious one.

"No," He stated rather bluntly. "I think not."

"You didn't enjoy?" She asked, eyebrow raised and a sultry smile on her lips.

"You know the answer to that I'd think."

"Another women then?" She feigned shock, hurt, and then whispered something practically dirty in his ear.

Daegon laughed and kissed her in the hopes of shutting her up, not that he didn't like doing the act or what she suggested, but he had places to be. Another kiss, another goodbye, and she was getting dressed to leave. If she was of noble birth he might be in some trouble later... but he was grateful for the distraction all the same.

He was haft dressed as he watched her get out of bed and walk across the room to pick up her cloths.

"Another day." Daegon sighed, looking out his window as the door shut and the women sneaked out of his chambers without anyone being the wiser. His brothers guards would see her, he knew, but they would not say a word. Why would they? He'd hardly be the first price to sleep around and he wasn't married, so there was nobody to insult. Other than the girls parents but again that was an issue for another day if that day ever came. Daegon focused on the tournament that was to come.


	4. Chapter 4: The Glory

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

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Notes/Reviews: Sceonn - Chapter 1&2 were prologues, as was explained in great detail during said chapters that the story would truly being at Chapter 3. Daegon was introduced as a child in Chapter 1. What they are doing in Westeros has been explained in detail across 3&4\. Chapters 1&2 merely gave backstory.

* * *

 **Chapter 4: The Glory**

His earliest memories of his twin were of a great feast at King's Landing. King Jaehaerys II Targaryen had invited his father as a guest of honor to celebrate the victory over the Blackfyre Pretenders and the closing of the War of Ninepenny Kings. He was too young to truly understand at the time but the feast was both a celebration and a funeral. From what he'd learnt of his uncle later in life, he had no doubts that Aevar Rogare would have turned his noise up at such a spectacle and his fathers unending grasping for trade and relations. Looking back, the man had used his own brothers death to get closer to the Targaryens. His father was nothing if not practical.

"To the Prince Aevar!" King Jaehaerys had toasted his uncle. "To the heroes that died for us all!"

The hall had cheered the empty praise. Looking back, he scowled at the memory of drunken lords and knights toasting a dead man they knew little of and in truth cared nothing for. His uncle. His uncle whom rode into battle and died from a cut to his leg that no maester or healer could uncut. He'd bled to death on the battlefield.

The King had sat his father, and by extension He and his twin, high on the dais in a place of honor. His father spent most of the feast and the tournament that followed talking with the young Prince Aerys Targaryen, largely about his experiences in the war. Aerys had fought side-by-side with his uncle, or so he'd been taught, fighting like the warrior reborn against an evil monster. It was something out of a children's book... and he supposed he'd _been_ a child when they taught him it. He remembered his brother sitting beside a young boy of similar age, who he now knew to be Prince Aerys son, and once more looking back thought on how bloody convenient it all was. His fathers planning no doubt. His twin spent all of the feast talking to the Targaryen as much as small children could hold a conversation; they were both Princes he supposed. He doubted lowborn children had to worry about such things. Doubtless they were lucky enough to not even be taught a thing. In truth? He'd envied them.

"I don't want to be a Prince!" He'd told his father, at one point or another in his childhood. It earn him a laugh and a lecture about duty.

He liked to think that he'd grown to understand the way of the world. He was the second son. The spare. His duty was to protect his brother, lead his armies and defend Lys till the last drop of blood left his veins. Thinking on it now he couldn't help but think that his twin would've been better suited for this role. The gods, whatever ones a man opted to place faith in, all seemed to like their irony. Vaegon sighed, the ripe smell of rotting sewage assaulting him. He hated it as a child. He hated it still.

The bustling and busy streets of King's Landing demanded his attention, as he stepped onto the pier. The people were going about their day to day lives, shopping in the markets, praying in the sept, going to and from their workplaces. Looking around at the shops and people, those closest to the docks were clearly the wealthiest, larger and better built. The cobblestone streets back in Lys were dotted with trees along the sides besides the gutters and houses with usually a dozen people inside, if not more, and were strongly built if sparingly decorated. The streets of King's Landing were were worn by comparison and changed to rough dirt paths as one moved away from the wealthiest part of the city and into the poorer sections where most of the people lived and worked. The city watch were out in force, patrolling the city. Each group of men had some crossbowmen, a weapon that was beloved by the guards back in Lys for how easy they were to use and maintain, not to mention how they could be loaded and carried around on a long patrol ready to be fired in a moments notice. Vaegon had no knowledge of the structure here, but back home, each patrol in Lys was led by veteran watchmen who had served for ten years and been given the authority to pass sentences on his fathers behalf. At least when it came to minor and clear crimes. At a glance of the docks there weren't as many guards as there were in back home, nor were they better equipped. In fairness, Westeros was far larger than Lys and by nature more unruly.

"My Prince?" A voice snapped him from his thoughts.

"I expect my guard suited and ready. They'll be expecting us."

The man, a nameless crewman, gave a swift nod and rushed off to relay the orders.

"Hook it through the end son," Vaegon drifted off into his thoughts. "that's it."

Looking at the pier he recalled the last time he'd seen his brother, here at the docks, being taught to fish of all things as a circle of guardsmen secured an entire sway of the pier for their personal use. Father liked to make a show and dance of even the simplest things. "Now," he could hear his father tell him. "cast out the line like your-"

He'd gotten the hang of it after a few attempts and sat for a time as his father went on about duty and family.

"Your brother will be staying with the Targaryens for awhile."

"I wont be coming home, father?" Daegon had asked innocently with as brave a face as he could muster.

Vaegon had said nothing, keeping his eye on the floating marker out in the steady water.

"You'll return when your older and wiser my boy."

He never returned. Daegon came of age and refused to budge; preferring his new family to his true one.

"I've got something!" Vaegon had cried with childlike delight as the marker dipped under the waters murky suffice.

"That's my boy!" His father had smiled. He reminded that clear as day, as one of the few moments he'd seen the man truly happy about something that wasn't making him a fortune in one way or another. "Give it some room now boy. Too much force and you risk braking the line. Too little and it'll get the best of you."

There was more wisdom in those words than he'd known as a child. The old man was always playing an angle.

"I got it!" Vaegon beamed like the sun, holding the slimy fish with both hands. It flipped and struggled in his gasp in an attempt to escape but, the dragon that he was, the fish stood no chance. In truth it had been a small thing barely worth the effort to catch and certainly not worth the effort to cook nor eat. His father returned it to the waters and gave his children a fresh lecture about small mercies and letting your catch go on occasion. More hidden meanings that had escaped him.

"My Prince." Another voice, this time from one he recognized.

The man motioned in the direction of the city and a large group of gold cloaks, walking with purpose towards them. At the groups head walked Prince Lewyn Nymeros Martell, better known simply as Lewyn Martell, glad in his white cloak. Ser Lewyn was the uncle of the current Prince of Dorne, Doran Martell.

"Martell!" Vaegon hurried forward with a smirk on his lips.

"Rogare." Lewyn replied in kind.

"King Aerys sends me an escort?" Vaegon eyed the guardsmen.

Lewyn seemed to hesitated. "His grace sent me for you, indeed."

That sounded less welcoming than he'd hoped. His father had warned him about Aerys mental state, or at least the rumors of it.

"Well," Vaegon opted to ignore the tense looking guards. "lead then way. It has been too long."

Not nearly long enough, actually, but who else was there to send? One of his distant cousins that could barely be called Rogare? More merchants than princes those few and doubtless Aerys would take them as an insult. And if the rumors were anything to go by one did not wish to insult Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King.

* * *

The Red Keep was smaller than he remembered from his childhood, but he supposed that was only natural. Ser Lewyn lead them through the hallways and pasts the servants that whispered among themselves and moved to avoid them as they hurried through the halls towards the throne room. They were stopped at the doors.

"Your sword." Lewyn said simply, holding out a hand.

"Do you think me an assassins Martell?" Vaegon scoffed at the notion.

"His Grace does not allow steel in his presence," the dornishman explained. "save those of his Kingsguard."

"I have not come here to start a war Lewyn, this is nonsen-"

"You cannot enter with your blade, Prince."

Vaegon's guards had tensed, hands wandering to pommels on instinct.

"Prince Vaegon." A sweet voice cut the hanging tension like a hot knife.

The voice came from a women with a crown upon her long silver locks and a calming smile on her lips.

"Her Grace," Lewyn announced her. "Queen Rhaella Targaryen."

"Your Grace." Vaegon bowed his head ever so slightly.

"No need for such formality among friends, young Prince."

"And yet I am suspected of-"

Vaegon didn't quite know what he was suspect of. But it had angered him some.

"-of whatever this is. My father has been a friend of your husband for many years..."

There was a flash of something in Rhaella's eyes. Simplify? Sadness? Pity? Vaegon couldn't quite tell.

"Lys's friendship is cherished." She spoke with a smile, and it seemed she believed even own words. This dragon wore a mask as far as Vaegon could see, but gods know he wasn't adept enough to see through it. The fact did not warm him to the idea of being unarmed in the presence of a man known for burning men without cause.

"And yet I cannot see His Grace while armed?"

She had that flash in her eyes again, the same his own mother got when she worried over her sons.

"Come," she offered. "I will accompany you."

"I-"

"Would you refuse a Queen?"

"No." He fought the urge to sigh. "You honor me, Your Grace."

Lewyn remained him. "Your sword."

Vaegon muttered a curse, handing his blade to the captain of his guard.

"You know your duty." Is the only orders he left with the man, now wielder of Glory. If anything happened to him inside this mad mans hall it would fall to that man and his company to spirit the blade to freedom; gods forbid anything happen in the first place. Vaegon had no wish to die just yet... and certainly not at King Aerys hands.

Vaegon pushed open the door to the throne room, gaining the immediate attention of every noble and courtier in attendance. "His Lordship," A man announced his arrival. "Vaegon Rogare, Prince of Lys and Sword of Glory." The last title always made him cringe. Sword of Truth sounded far better, in his opinion.

His eyes darted he walked towards the throne, the crowd whispering, seemingly anxious.

He stood at the foot of the Iron Throne, the great monstrosity of spikes and jagged edges and twisted metal. Aerys Targaryen looked uncomfortable, the back of the throne being fanged with steel that made leaning back impossible. Aegon I had it made this way deliberately, saying that a king should never sit easy. The king that sat it now was doubtlessly a far cry from the conqueror who built it. Aerys was a far cry from even himself, in his younger years. Looking at him now this was not the promising young prince Vaegon's father had described so often... a small wonder Daegon apparently avoided visits to the capital.

Vaegon knelt, knowing to do otherwise would be bad for his health. "Your Grace."

Silence. Aerys said nothing for what seemed like an eternity, as the crowd held it's breath, and the king in question looked through Vaegon like he wasn't even there. "Rogare!" The king finally spoke, an oddly warm smile appearing on his face seemingly out of nowhere. "Your father sent you? How is the man?"

Vaegon glanced at the queen, whom stood beside him still. She offered nothing. "My father is well, your Grace. He sends his regards."

Yes," Aerys seemed to ignore him. "yes. A good man your father, _he_ understood my vision..."

 _"Vision?"_ Vaegon thought, recalling perhaps the stories his father had told of Aery's grand plans that always faded with the tide. They ranged wildly from ambitious to madness. Invading the Stepstones. Building a new Wall hundreds of miles north of the current one and claiming all the lands between. Build a new city of white marble on the south bank of the Blackwater. And lastly, a favorite of his fathers, Aerys once claimed he would build a war fleet and bring the Titan of Braavos to its knees. Nothing ever came from any of these grandiose schemes, as Aerys was changeable and grew as bored with his ideas as quickly as they came to him.

The man sitting before him now was a far cry from the handsome and resolute prince his father told tales about. Aerys fingernails were akin to cracked yellow claws. His beard was matted and unwashed and his silver-gold hair hung down to his waist in wild tangles. His arms were covered with scabs and half-healed cuts, and atop his head sat the elaborate dragon-emblazoned crown of Aegon the Unworthy. Vaegon now understood without a doubt that all the rumors were true.

A voice in his head screamed at him. _"Leave with your brother as quickly as poss-"_

"You'll come with me to Harrenhal!" Aerys declared, as he began to laugh maniacally, the sole listener to some grand joke.

Vaegon thought to refuse, if not for the looking from Aery's queen that practically screamed at him not to. _"Would he really stop me?"_ Vaegon thought, hesitating, as Aerys crackled laughter rang in his ears. _"Gods,"_ He realized. _"he almost certainly would."_ The queens look pleaded with him to submit.

"It would be an honor, Your Grace."

Queen Rhaella betrayed no emotion. Vaegon felt himself pitying the women, as he began to understand her position.

"Excellent!" Aerys declared. "It's been too long Daegon, you were always my favorite!"

Vaegon looked to the queen and she offered a smile, warm as any other, although he was beginning to-

"DON'T LOOK AT HIM!" Aerys screamed from atop his throne, now standing and carefully feeling his way down the steps. The barbs cut his hand at least once although he didn't seem to notice. "You'd have more brothers if not for this women, my boy." Aerys had since reached the thrones base, and moved close to Vaegon's side. "It's those midwives." He continued with a snarl. "They are to fault. They poison your dear mother, the Maesters tell me otherwise, but I know the truth of it!"

"Perhaps we should prepare for the tourney, husband?"

Something sparked in Aerys eyes. "Yes." He smiled at his wife, before walking towards the exit flanked by one of his kingsguard. He was muttering more nonsense as he made his exit. The gathered men and women of the court all took their leave afterwards, suppressing obvious sighs of relief. Apparently it had gone well...

Vaegon did not have the words for it, failing to notice how his hand had long since gone to his side, where Glory should have been.

"Come," The queen offered. "your men will be anxious and we've a tournament to prepare for."

"Where is my brother?" He blurted out, what patience he'd come into the throne room with had been burnt away.

The queen simply smiled sweetly. "With my son, no doubt. Daegon is rarely far from his side. They'll be at the tournament."

Vaegon sighed. "As you say."

It seemed he'd have a tournament to attend, and many questions in need of answering. His own father had dismissed the rumors of madness as nothing but whispers, but having met the man it was all too clear. Unstable, was the word for it. He'd get his brother and then leave this accursed country in a heartbeat. Gods willing.

"Captain," Vaegon spoke, strapping Glory back onto his person.

"My Prince?" The captain of the guard replied with obvious concern.

"If I entertain the notion of going into that throne room again. Kill me."

The captain smirked. "As you say, Prince."

* * *

Vaegon rode at the head of the column, the dragon of Lys flying proudly in the wind as his party laid eyes on Harrenhal. In it's day, before the conquest, it would would have been the largest castle ever constructed with it's colossal curtain walls high as mountain cliffs and gatehouse as large as most keeps. A true seat of kings, in the end serving as nothing but a grave and constant reminder as to the power of dragon fire. "Fire and Blood." Vaegon muttered to himself as he motioned his horse forward, his men were tired and this was no time for sightseeing. King Aerys had insisted he ride at the front, a place of honor he called it, while using his brothers name.

It was odd. Aerys seemed to mistake him for Daegon haft the time, referring to his wayward twin as a son on more than one occasion. Was his brother so close to this mad man? Or perhaps that was just the madness? Again he found himself wishing to leave this country as quickly as he could manage; sadly the tourney complicated things.

"Presenting," the herald announced as the great hall of lords turned to see the new arrivals. "his Grace, Aerys Targaryen. Second of His Name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Mem. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." The herald read of the mans titles as if his life depending on it, and it likely did.

Vaegon followed behind the king, hoping to sneak into the hall largely un-

"Presenting," the herald cleared his throat. "Vaegon Rogare. Prince of Lys and the Sword of Glory."

"Shit." Vaegon cursed in valyrian, so much for being unnoticed. He walked forward, as Aerys had done before more, wearing all the finery that was expected of him with a golden dragon clasp holding a fine silk cloak in place. On his hip in a black-and-gold scabbard sat Glory, it's hilt adorned with gems worth more than a kings ransom. He walked towards the dais flanked by fifty or so Lys royal guards; known for their harsh training and undying loyalty to the Rogare family.

He smiled up at the man that could only be his twin, a mirror image of himself if not for the beard.

"Is there a seat spare for me, Your Grace?"

Aery's eyes darted down at him. "Hm?" He seemed to forget where he was for a moment.

Vaegon stood in silence as the hall held it's breath. Aerys continued to both confuse and concern him, in all truth, the man seemed mad haft the time and absent the other. Standing in the hall now with the eyes of every Westerosi lord on him was not a comfortable experience in of itself. It seemed like an eternity passed.

"Yes!" Aerys finally snapped, laughing heartily. "Yes, yes! What are you waiting for Daegon?!"

Vaegon blinked at that, eyes darting to his brother whom motioned him to sit quickly. He'd later learn that his brother was anything but close to the Mad King. In fact Daegon made great efforts to avoid the capital, last visiting for the birth of Prince Rhaegar's son and heir. As for Aerys? Daegon dismissed the man with a roll of his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5: Tourney at Harrenhal

Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, I do however own the non-canon character(s) of this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so I ask you to not expect anything worthy of the great GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful feedback/thoughts about the story.

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Notes/Reviews: Sceonn - Vassals of the Iron Throne? I've no idea where you've gotten that, but it's not the case, Daegon merely acted as a ward to Aerys and decided to remain in Westeros rather than return home to Lys. Vaegon 'kneels' to Aerys out of respect, not wanting to anger a man known for burning people, this doesn't make him a vassal; he's just not stupid. Regarding the 'timeskip' it was very _clearly_ explained. Chapter 1 &2 are a Prologue.

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Tourney at Harrenhal**

"I passed a practically stunning dornishwomen on my way here." Vaegon's voice grabbed his brothers attention, as he leaned casually against the framework of the chambers door with a judging look on his face. "Hair was a mess, clothes put on in a hurry by the looks of it. A bloody mischievous grin on her lips too..."

"Sounds like quite the catch brother," Daegon replied as he straightened his shirt. "when is the wedding?"

"Oh, there will be no wedding."

"I'm not invited?" Daegon smirked knowingly.

"No." His brother scowled. "I'm afraid she's off sleeping with other men."

Feigning shock and failing to hide his growing smirk, Daegon held a hand over his heart.

"What does father say about whores?"

His smirk died. "She's not a whore."

"Oh?" Vaegon doubted.

"I didn't pay her," his brother explained. "therefore-

"An extremely cheap whore then."

Daegon shrugged, tired of the game. "Shall we?"

They walked in silence for a time, down hallways and corridors that seems like a maze, such was the scale of Harrenhal. "Lord Whent's offering quite the prize for the jousting." Vaegon spoke first as they walked, passing numerous servants without so much as a glance. They kept their own eyes down and focused on working as the two princes passed them by. "Enough for a kings ransom, as a matter of fact. Did your friend tell you of this?"

"Rhaegar?" Daegon assumed. "It's custom for such events to offer gold, dear brother."

Vaegon scoffed. "This much? I think not."

"How much then?"

"Enough to build a small keep."

Wide eyed for a mere moment, Daegon shrugged at the notion.

"Lord Whent is that wealthy?"

 _"No."_ He wanted to say. The man wasn't. For as large and fertile as his lands were, Harrenhal drained what good it might offer any lord of it's haunted walls. More than once throughout history, he had no doubt, many had considered pulling down it's stones and building anew. Smaller. Manageable. Less... daunting...

"Brother?"

"No." Daegon replied simply.

"Then how is it he affords such expense?"

Again, he shrugged. He had no idea where the old man-

"A wealthy benefactor then?" Vaegon guessed, turning a corner towards the main hall.

 _"Rhaegar?"_ Daegon thought, bringing a frown to his lips. It was possible and he'd considered it before... but why do such a thing? And why so much?

"King Aerys perhaps?" Vaegon suggested. If he noticed the look on his brothers face, he didn't care to comment. "It would make sense no? Holding a lavish tournament to show off his wealth, power and prestige." A moments later he seems to rethink his theory. "Although then Lord Whent gets all the praise..."

Daegon ignored him and kept walking, towards the faint sound of music in the air.

"The man is as mad as fa-"

"Don't." Daegon snarled in a hushed tone, halted in his stride.

"He called me Daegon," Vaegon raised a brow. "why is that?"

"Did father not warn you of him?"

"He did." Vaegon replied unfazed.

"Then you should know enough."

"It's all true then?" Vaegon assumed as much from his meeting, but his brother would know the man better. "The madness. The burning, even? And the mans wife too?" At the last, his eyes narrowed, hand absently gripping Glory's pommel. "I saw the queens eyes. She was afraid... and not just for my sake I feel..."

"Enough." Daegon snapped. "That's enough, brother. There is good reason I avoid that capital."

Vaegon sighed. "All the more reason for you to return home."

Pushing away from his brother and towards the great hall he snarled "I _am_ home" while leaving his brother behind. Vaegon hadn't expected this to be easy, after all, they were brothers in blood but little else. He supposed distance and time would do that. Still. Lys was his duty and Rogare's always did their duty. The music washed over him as he followed Daegon into the great hall where a sizable crowd gathered to watch a silver prince play his high harp, all silver and ornate, sad notes flowing from it's strings as Prince Rhaegar sang. A scene straight out of some blushing maidens fantasy.

"Do not fear." Rhaegar sang, his voice sweet as honey. "Fear the darkened path..."

His brother had stopped to listen, behind the crowd.

"When you walk alone..."

"He's good." Vaegon said, quietly, stepping into place beside his twin.

"Burden not your own..."

Daegon said nothing, arms crossed and watching as Rhaegar plucked the harp strings.

"On the darkest road..."

"I heard he was a swordsmen," Vaegon kept talking. "not a poet. What _is_ this song? I've never-"

"It's his own." Daegon explained simply, his voice hushed.

"You will see." Rhaegar continued as the crowd watched. "See Him beckon you in."

The gathered crowd erupted in applause as the song was apparently over. Rhaegar, all smiles, gave a bow in thanks.

"Who's _Him_?" Vaegon raised a brow.

Daegon sighed. "I've no idea, the words just come to him."

That sounded healthy. Vaegon decided not to voice the thought, the song was depressing if you asked him, although his taste was never with such things. "Shall we attend the melee then? Most of the guests are there already..." That was the truth of it. Why the Crown Prince had bothered with such a small crowd for his sho-

"He plays when the mood takes him." Daegon replied, seemingly reading his twins thoughts. "He enjoys it."

It was a better madness than burning people, Vaegon judged. "Shall we brother?"

Harrenhal's grounds were vast and obviously impressive, under the shadow of curtain walls high as cliffs the surrounding land boasted farmland that stretched for miles, dotted with small towns both inhabited and abandoned; some falling to winter and famine. If not for the crushing expense of the castles upkeep the citadel would be a crowning jewel of Westeros. The greatest castle ever built. One supposed the Hoare's didn't have to pay for labor however... a luxury the current owners couldn't cling to and with good reason. There were few things the Rogare family had a distaste for more than slaves, having that way of thinking hammered into them over the years.

The brothers cut through what the locals called the Market District, under the main keeps shadow, the sky clear as a warm breeze blew through Vaegon's hair. A crowd of people went about their business around the princes, in light fabrics composed of bland whites, browns and grays. Although one might assume the usual cold wet weather of the Riverlands would call for thick clothing, the inhabitants seemed to prefer light fabric. Long-sleeved tunics, billowy trousers, leather boots. Vaegon and his princely brother stood out like a sore thumb in silvers and golds with the Rogare guards following like a personal Kingsguard.

Not that they were too odd an sight, given the staggering number of lords high and low in attendance.

A group of knights passed them by in nothing more than marked breastplates that identified them as household men, as opposed to common hedge knights. They'd don their full plate during battle, but around the tournament - much like the common guard - they seemed to wear far lighter attire.

It was Daegon who couldn't resist a scowl as a practically richly dressed man rudely brushed past him and muttered a curse about foreigners. Nobility from King's Landing, he assumed. The capital was filled with them, as much a plague as he'd ever seen. They'd strive for power while manipulating others and shrouding their sins in secrecy. There were few exceptions to the rule, even back home in Lys. Daegon avoided cities, hives of scum that they were.

Rhaegar had complained often and loudly in the privacy of Summerhal about the state of things in his fathers city, vowing things would be different when he came into his throne. Daegon believed him. Rhaegar rarely lied, although he could be distant and tended to daydream, the man was a bastion of chivalry in the Rogare Princes eyes.

"Pompous bastards." Daegon muttered to himself as they left sight of the market.

His brother raised a brow, as if to clarify.

"The lords." Daegon confirmed with a sigh.

Vaegon understood, offering a simple nod before returning his attention ahead.

The two princes made towards the stands wh- "KICKING!"

The voice in the distance - snapping the princes attention to the side - was shortly followed by a wave of scared squires, fleeing some great terror and muttering about a "mad women" with a sword. One appeared to have wet himself, if the patch on his trousers was anything to go by...

"Boy!" Vaegon spat, one of the squires crashing into the side of a Rogare guardsmen and falling backwards onto his arse.

"M- M- M-" The boy stuttered, looking up wide-eyed at the silver-haired prince.

"I think this ones simple." Daegon offered, head tilted slightly to the side.

"I-" The boy looked between them, noting the Valyrian traits. "My prince! She attacked us, I swea-"

"She?" Vaegon narrowed his eyes as his guards snickered.

"A witch!" The square nodded furiously, sitting in the mud.

"I'd like to see this... witch..."

The boy kept nodding and clumsily got to his feet.

"This way!" He offered, hesitantly.

"We don't have time for games." Vaegon sighed.

"Ah come now brother," Daegon smirked devilishly. "where's your sense of adventure?"

The blank stare he received was all the confirmation that this apparent 'sense' had been destroyed, if it ever existed in the first place.

"Your no fun." Daegon shook his head ever so slightly.

"I'll be on the stands, don't keep your mad king waiting..."

There was a point there. If Daegon cared what King Aerys thought or had any desire to be anywhere near the man, he might just care enough to consider following his brother. Unfortunately, none of that was the case. "Lead on brave squire!" Daegon announced, loudly. "Lead on!"

The boy, now oddly filled with a newfound courage, charged forward. Daegon followed at a slow stroll seemingly in no rush.

* * *

It wasn't long before the 'brave' squire reached where the supposed witch was to be found, only to find nothing. "She was her!" The squire insited loudly, franticlly eyeing every corner and shadow as if the witch was waiting in ambush. "I swear m'lord! I swe-"

"I believe you boy." Daegon was knelt, eyeing some obviously disturbed area of dirt, with muddied boot prints leading away from the scene. It didn't take a master tracker to notice the trial. "Somebody _was_ here," he added for the boys sake. "and they left in that direction. Not alone either..."

"A- Alone?" The squires courage seemed to spoil. His eyes widened. "It took prisoners!?"

Daegon fought the urge to smack the squire.

"Shes going to cook them!" The boy exclaimed madly. "By the gods, we have t-"

Daegon, ignoring the boy, walked off in the direction of the tracks hoping nobody had disturbed them quite yet. The annoying squire aside this little distraction was almost a gift from the gods, keeping him from his brothers questions. "M'lord!?" The squire seemed to have followed. The gods had a sense of humor...

The 'witch' and her 'captive' seemed to have taken shelter in the Northern section of gathered tents, none of whom seemed all that welcoming to his arrival if the stares were anything to go by. They thought he was Rhaegar perhaps? It wouldn't have been the first time, although the comparison was laughable to anyone that knew either of them.

"Trail ends here..."

"Well done squire," Daegon said loud enough for the nearby guardsmen to hear. "your grasp of the obvious has yet to fail us."

"Thank you m'lord."

Daegon darted his eyes to the boy, oblivious as he stared at the tent flap to the supposed witches lair.

He made himself known to the guards at the tent, two men, clearly northern men-at-arms with no family family to speak of. "May I enter?" He asked, putting on his most charming smile. "You seem to be harboring a dangerous witch in this tent that I'd very much like to talk with..."

The guards looked to each other before answering. "You _what_ pretty boy?"

Daegon blinked. "A witch," he explained slowly. "in this tent of yours."

Again the guards paused a moment. "No witches here."

"Piss off now," the second guard added for good measure.

Daegon was growing impatient. "I'm going in," he stated as if it was the simplest of things. "past or through you. Makes no difference to me."

"Listen here pretty boy," the first guard snarled. "you need to fuck off before w-"

"Who the blood hells is it!?" A voice asked him inside, seemingly almost as tired of the show as Daegon was.

"I-" The guard hesitated, eyes darting to the intruder then back to the tent. "It's-"

"Prince Rhaegar _bloody_ Targaryen!" Daegon yelled, loudly. echoing the tone of whomever was inside.

Silence passed at that lie, although none here could argue otherwise for certain at a glance, it certainly got everyone's attention. "Let him in!" The voice from inside commanded, and the guards quickly obeyed. Daegon smiled at the guards as he passed them by, savoring the victory.

"Your not a witch." He said plainly, eyeing the young women that stood before him.

She eyed him too, judging. "Your not Rhaegar."

He recalled her after a moment as the words of Eila flooded in and echoed, "that serving girl you were staring at, would be Lord Starks daughter", with her slim frame, brown hair, long face and grey eyes. There was a glint of something mischievous in those grey orbs now, opposed to the concern or fear he'd have expected.

He was a stranger pretending to be the crown prince, now in her tent. "Well?"

 _"Well?"_ Daegon was somewhat lost for words, raising a brow at the odd question. _"Shouldn't this be the other way around?"_. Starks daughter, who's name escaped him, didn't seem in the least bit fazed. She stared at him with those grey eyes defiant and completely unfazed by his presence.

"Well?" She repreated herself, eyes narrowed and hand on the tourney blade at her hip. "Who _are_ you?"

 _"Oh."_ Daegon snapped out of it, lowering his head to appear regretful. "Forgive my manners my lady."

She didn't forgive him as he'd expected. "Your name?"

"Daegon." He gave her his most charming smile. "Prince Daegon Rogare, at your service Lady Stark."

She scoffed. _Scoffed._ At _him_ , of all people.

He waited, but she failed to respond in kind. "May I have your name, my lady?"

"Lyanna." The women tossed out her name hastily, turning back to a small man laid out on her bed behind a simple grey curtain. Her lover? It was said northern women were as savage as the men... although he wasn't one to judge who anyone decided to spend their nights with... or days as the case seemed.

"Lady Ly-"

"Lyanna." She snapped. "Just _Lyanna_ , lose the pomp."

He was starting to like this one, her bluntness was actually a little refreshing.

"If your staying," her head poked out from the curtain and again seemed to judge him. "I could use a hand..."

Not one to deny a lady Daegon opted to step forward, moving the curtain aside and beside her bed where the short man lay, his teeth gritted. _"Wounded."_ The obvious was the first thing to enter his mind, the man was perhaps not a lover but a patient? This wolf girl was just getting stranger...

"The witches prey." He muttered under is breath.

"Hold him in place." If she heard him she didn't care to comment.

He did so, eyeing the short mans arm as it appeared at worse broken, at best dislocated.

The loud hollow pop and subsequent cry of pain from the patient proved two things. First, it was the lesser of ether case, and the mans arm had been dislocated by some means. "I learnt from my Maester," Lyanna explained without him needing to ask. "despite his protects." Secondly, it seemed she knew a thing or two.

"Thank you, Lya." The short man mumbled through gritted teeth.

Lyanna smiled, bright and genuine. "It was nothing."

"It seems I've another to thank?" The short man asked, propping himself up with one hand.

"Howland," Lyanna looked to her helper. "this is Prin-"

"LYANNA!" A voice interrupted, as a very angry looking man stormed in.

Daegon couldn't help but smirk as the word "shit" slipped from Lyanna's mouth.

"WHERE IS-" The man demanded, eyeing Daegon as he quickly moved to draw steel.

"Brandon Stark!" Lyanna scolded, loudly, having stepped between the man and the prince. "You barge into my tent without invitation," the she-wolf continued. "screaming loud enough to wake the gods, then try to murder a prince inside my tent. What are you thinking!?"

"He isn't the-" Brandon moved to defend himself with equal bite, hand gripping his blade ready to strike without thought.

Daegon's growing smirk it seemed was not helping the wolf to calm itself.

"I don't need a princes blood here." Lyanna said with a smirk of her own. "I've just cleaned this tent, after all..."

"Your concern is touching my lady." Daegon kept a smile on his lips, and a hand on Truth's pommel.

Lyanna scoffed again, not bothering to give a reply.

"HE'S NOT A PRINCE!" Brandon announced louder than before, now red in the face.

"Am too." Daegon taunted him, a smirk still evident on his face.

"ENOUGH!" Lyanna snapped, feeling a headache coming along.

"I-"

"He-"

"I said _enough!_ " The women spoke as if she was queen, her word final and unquestionable.

"He's not Rhaegar, Lya, he's-"

"Prince Daegon Rogare." Lyanna announced with a blank stare.

Brandon gave the prince a once over and his anger seemed to fail some.

"Your looking pretty stupid now, eh Bran?"

"He's still in your tent." Brandon scoffed, like brother like sister apparently.

"I invited him." Lyanna lied, motioning to the short man who was still laying silently. "He was helping me with Howland here."

"My Lord." The short man, Howland, bowed his head as best he should.

"None of that," Lyanna scolded him quickly. "we're friends here."

Brandon seemed less concerned about the short man than he was the Prince.

"Howland was beaten by some squires." Lyanna explained with no small hint of disgust.

"You shouldn't have involved yourself Lya, it could've been dangerous..."

"He's a Reed!" Lyanna defended. "If we don't protect our banners, why should they protect us?"

Daegon beamed at that, both the notion and Brandons shame at not realizing who Howland was at a glance. A shameful thing for an Heir to admit really, that his sister recognized a banner and he did not. "I am grateful," Howland added. "but Lord Brandon isn't wrong. You shouldn't endanger yourself on my acco-"

"Nonsense!" Lyanna dismissed the notion.

"See?" Brandon gave a nod to the young Reed. "He agrees, it's not your place little sister."

The she-wolf looked about reach to attack him at that as Daegon envisioned the women growing fangs and ripping her brother to prices all of a sudden as if to prove him wrong. Instead of that, still gripping her tourney blade and with surprising speed, Lyanna swung the blunted steel.

*Thud*

Brandon Stark didn't seem bothered by the strike to his side, doubtless seeing it coming from a mile away, he shrugged with an amused look and ruffled Lyanna's hair like a child; boasting a wolfish grin all the while. "Well struck _little_ sister," he teased. "but you still swing like a girl."

Lyanna huffed. "Piss off Bran," she waved him away like a common servant. "and take the pretty boy with you."

Daegon raised a brow. "I'm _pretty_ am I?"

If looks could kill the glare Lyanna offered would've flayed them all living, and Daegon earned the same treatment as her brother, another smack with her blade followed by a hasty retreat. "Why _were_ you in her tent?" Brandon asked once the pair were forced outside at sword-point.

"Squire mistook your sister for a witch." Daegon explained with a shrug, thinking on it now he didn't doubt Lyanna had offered those squires the same farewell he'd received. "She beat the seven hells out of them, and I fancied an excuse to avoid good King Aerys."

Brandon simply nodded. "Mad bastard I hear. It true?"

That was not a conversation he wanted to have. "Come!" He distracted Stark, placing a hand around his shoulder and his other pointing forward dramatically. "Introduce me to your pack eh Stark? We are friends now after all, are we not?"

A distraction about as stubble as it was simple, but he doubt-

"Friends?"

Brandon took the bait. Fool.

"Naturally." Daegon smiled, charming as always.

"I tried to kill you..."

"The _best_ of friends then."

Brandon looked either ready to argue or ready to give up, and in the end the latter won out as Daegon knew it would. Brandon Stark was anything but complex, quick to laugh, slow to think and quicker still to anger; not that Daegon minded the type. They'd get long swimmingly after a few drinks.

* * *

Vaegon shouldn't have let his brother out of his sight. He'd vanished, apparently having no care if he happened to offend King Aerys. Thankfully the mad king didn't seem to notice _his_ attendance yet alone that of his wayward twin. The melee had begun and still there was no sign of Daegon bothering to show, leaving Vaegon alone in the royal stand beside Princess Elia who sat beside Rhaegar who sat beside the mad king himself with his wife to the mans right; her mask never more obvious.

"He'll turn up." The voice of Elia broke him from his thoughts, her voice sweet as honey.

Was he so easy to read? He looked to the Princess and prepared to deny-

"He always turns up," she offered. "sooner or later. Usually with a few bruises and new friends."

Rhaegar was heard snorting at that, but didn't bother speaking. He watched the melee intently.

"Am I so easy to read?" Vaegon asked

Elia smiled. "I've gotten quite skilled at the art of reading people, Vae. May I call you Vae?"

"I've no issue with it, Princess."

"Good." She seemed genuinely glad. "Then you must call me Elia."

"I wouldn't-"

"We are friends, no?"

Were they? "I suppose so, Prin- Elia."

Again she smiled. "I'm glad. Daegon speaks so little of family, it would be a shame to not know more..."

"Nothing much to know honestly." Vaegon's eyes darted across the arena where the combatants fought. "you've likely guessed correct of most things. Daegon is my twin, although we are not close as we were. Our father had his role in that, when he sent Daegon here to ward for King Aerys."

Elia kept the smile on her lips, black eyes seeming to will that he continue.

"I've spent some years with sellswords," he continued while watching the fighting. "as far east as Qarth and everywhere between."

Elia's interest peaked. "I'd always wanted to travel. My mother taught me that there was a whole large world outside of Dorne, wanting me to see it. She took her children to far corners of the realm to visit high lords in their castles. I ended up in the highest, thanks to her."

"Sounds lovely."

She raised a brow.

"Forgive me," Vaegon offered. "the idea of wandering never appealed to me as it did my twin."

"And yet you travels so far?" Elia asked, head slightly tilted in question. "Why?"

"I am the Sword of Glory." Vaegon said with some fake pomp. "I have a duty to serve the Prince of Lys, by leading his armies and dying for him if needs be. My father taught me a long time ago that it was best to simply accept my role and seek to fulfill it to my best ability."

"So," Elia paused. "you sought out experience?"

"Essos is filled with conflict. Finding it wasn't difficult."

Vaegon leaned forward in his seat, eyeing one of the fighters. He moved with surprising grace and-

"Ah," Elia pointed out. "there he is."

The sword made it obvious. In fact, Vaegon felt a headache coming along at his brothers stupidity. Why in the the name of all the gods did Daegon think wearing a full-helm and bland tourney attire would disguise himself when Truth shun like a bloody beacon? His twin clearly hadn't thought this though.

 _"Or,"_ a part of Vaegons mind whispered. _"somebody stole the blade and Daegon's drunk in a ditch somewhere..."_

In a heartbeat Daegon had disarmed his opponent, Truth to his neck, removing his helm with one hand to reveal silver locks and a wide toothy smile. "Well fought Stark!" His twin announced, offering the apparent Stark his hand. The crowd cheered at the spectacle and the winner was announced.

"The victor!" The herald announced as Daegon and Stark clasped forearms. "Daegon Rogare, the Sword of Truth!"

Elia was smiling her usual sweet smile, clapping gracefully. Vaegon found himself shaking his head. Rhaegar? Rhaegar was staring intently across to the Stark stands where Lord Stark was clapping for his sons efforts and a women with a long face and grey eyes was laughing heartily at her brothers beating.


End file.
